The King's Councillor
by Ceres Wunderkind
Summary: Professor Lyra Belacqua is summoned to London. Why has the king called his Special Council? What is Lyra's sister Elizabeth Boreal up to? And what has gone wrong with the alethiometer?
1. The Summons

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Author's note

Here we go again! Don't expect me to be able to update this very often as I'm seriously stuck for free time.

This story is written in response to a couple of questions I've asked myself. It fits chronologically after _Intentions_ and _Threads_ and before _The Clockmaker's Boy_. If you've seen my other stories already then fine, go ahead and read this one. Otherwise…

**__**

New readers start here:

In _Intentions_, the Subtle Knife is restored and passes from Will Parry to Giancarlo Bellini, and we first meet Lyra's half-sister Elizabeth Boreal. Giancarlo takes the Knife to his home world of Cittagazze.

In _Threads_, it is ten years later. Will is a doctor, Lyra is an academic, and Elizabeth is the chairwoman of the powerful Boreal Foundation, which is trying to make a new Subtle Knife. Giancarlo Bellini and his adopted sister Guilietta return to Will's world. Elizabeth's accomplices Mr Greaves and Miss Morley try to take the Knife, but are foiled by Will and Giancarlo, aided by Mary Malone. Mr Greaves is killed and the Knife is finally destroyed. Will Parry meets Judy Beckley, whom he marries.

Now: read on!

**__**

The Summons

Professor Lyra Belacqua MA D.Litt DD D.Aleth was sitting at her desk in her rooms in Jordan College, Oxford, reading a tutorial essay on the subject of "The Uses of Myth and Mythology in Realist Narrative" that had been submitted for her consideration by one of her brighter undergraduates, when there was a double rap on her door. Recognising the characteristic knock of the College messenger she called out, 'Come in, Horace,' and turned around in her chair to face him.

The young man, sandy-haired and fresh-faced, entered Lyra's study and handed her a piece of paper. 'From the Dean, Madam Professor,' he said, standing to attention as if to reinforce the importance of his mission. Lyra broke the seal and quickly scanned the contents of the note. _The Dean _and_ the Master!_ she thought but, hiding her surprise from the servant she turned to her desk, took up pen and paper, wrote a two word reply, _"Surely – Lyra"_, folded the sheet over and handed it to him.

'As quickly as you can please, Horace.'

'Yes, Madam Professor.'

The messenger closed the door behind him pushing it almost, but not quite, all the way shut and clattered back down the Stair, his terrier-daemon trotting purposefully after him. Lyra picked up the essay again but, realising that she might not now be able to pay her fullest attention to its turgid prose and over-earnest advocacy of the undergraduate's arguments, put it back down with a thud, took off her spectacles, stood up and walked around her desk and over to the stone-mullioned window.

'Something's up.' Lyra bent down and her daemon Pantalaimon leapt up onto her right shoulder. Together they looked out over the College quad, green from the wet and breezy Spring they had been experiencing this year.

'Yes, Pan. Something is most certainly going on. Why would the Master and the Dean both want to see us?'

'We could ask.' Pantalaimon twitched his nose towards the alethiometer, which was lying on the desk wrapped in its red velvet travelling bag.

'No. There's no need. We'll find out soon enough.'

The note had invited Professor Belacqua to afternoon tea in the Dean's House. It specified no time for the meeting, but Lyra knew College ways well enough by now and so, with the clocks chiming the three-quarters, she drew on her academic gown, picked up her mortarboard, pushed the alethiometer deep into the pocket of her long black skirt and set out for her appointment. The wind was gusting around the stone columns of the cloisters as she made her way, tugging at her clothes and threatening to tear the mortarboard from her head and send it skimming over the roofs of the College buildings. She walked past the Sanditon Library, over the Pneumatic Bridge and through the dank and dripping Bordon Passage. History and tradition had accreted over the original structure of the College, cementing together the bricks and stones and timbers of which its physical building were constructed. Lyra had been a resident of Jordan College for so long – most of her thirty-five years, indeed – that she no longer stopped to consider where the place's true strengths came from. The College simply _existed_ – it was the most ancient college in the most powerful academic institution in Brytain; and therefore the whole world. It would not be appropriate for a junior professor, no matter how remarkable her past achievements, to be late for a meeting with the two most important men in the establishment.

Lyra reached the Dean's House just as the oak clock in the panelled hallway was striking four. The servant took her cap and gown and showed her though to the sitting room, where the Dean and the Master were already sitting in large red leather armchairs before a crackling log fire, their daemons by their sides. Lyra and Pantalaimon took the rather more modest chair that they were offered.

'Tea, Professor Belacqua?'

'Thank you, Dean.' Lyra was handed a cup of chai and invited to help herself from a silver tray of cucumber sandwiches and slices of walnut cake. Pantalaimon sat on her lap, under strict instructions to exhibit a proper attention to good manners and not to nibble crumbs. Lyra ate and drank and talked college small talk and waited to be told the real reason for this teatime appointment. She did not have to wait very long.

'Now then, Professor.' The Dean put his teacup and plate on the floor beside his chair. 'You're probably wondering why we've asked you to take tea with us.'

Lyra smiled at him. 'It's always a pleasure to see you, sir.'

'Hmm. Quite so.' The Dean turned to his colleague. 'Why don't you tell her, George?'

'Very well, Leonard. Lyra, I'll come straight to the point. The King has summoned a Special Council in London, and we should like you to represent Jordan College there.'

'But, Master! Why me? What about my work? My students?'

The Master smiled gravely. 'I'll admit that this is an unusual request. Let me explain further. It has been…' he looked at the Dean, 'ten or more years since the last King's Council, has it not?'

'Twelve years,' the Dean said.

'Twelve years, then. The last Council was concerned with the Matter of Eire. It sat in conclave for, I believe, seven months and the outcome was the Treaty of Cashel, which granted Eire limited independence from the Kingdom of Brytain, in exchange for certain trade agreements.'

'I remember it, Master. But Eire is at peace. The whole country is at peace, and prosperous, so far as I can tell. Why would the King need to call a Council now?'

'We don't know, Lyra. We rather hoped that you might be able to tell us. After all, you do have a – um – _special_ relationship with the truth.'

Lyra took out the alethiometer. 'I can perform a reading now, Master, if you wish it.'

'No, on second thoughts that will not be necessary. You see, the summons from the Palace specifically requested your attendance – or, at least, the attendance of a skilled alethiometrist. You are by far the most adept member of College when it comes to the actual interpretation of the oracle, as opposed to its theory, and that is why we are asking you to go to London for us.'

The Dean sat forward in his armchair. 'You will no doubt consider it wise to ask the alethiometer, in your own time, why the King is calling his Council now. I should advise you to be wary of the answer it gives. It is my suspicion – our suspicion – that there are likely to be other parties in Council who will possess the means of divining the oracle in ways of their own.'

'Yes; and means of confusing it, too. Lyra, we would not normally consider sending a person so young, and with so little experience in politics and the ways of the world, to a King's Council. The Dean, or myself, would be expected to represent the academic community. But there are muddy waters here, and it may well be that youth and naivety will see things which age and wisdom will miss. And,' the Master gave a wry smile, 'you have unique knowledge which we think will be valuable. Will you go?'

Lyra stood up, gathering Pantalaimon into her arms. 'Yes, Master, I will go. When do I leave?'

'You will be collected at ten o'clock tomorrow and taken to London. The first meeting of the Council will take place the following day. In the meantime, I will see to the reassignment of your academic duties.'

'Lyra…'

'Yes, Sir?'

'Be very careful. For all our sakes, and especially your own.'

'I will, Sir.'

After Lyra had gone, the two old men faced each other across the hearth, where the dying fire was turning to grey ashes. 'This is a terrible risk we're taking, George.'

'I know, Leonard, I know.' The Master sighed. 'She's still so…'

'Young?'

'Yes, young. And…'

'I know. It's just the same for me, too. But she's her father's daughter and she's seen things that we can only dream of.'

'Quite so, quite so.'

Old men are spared the harsher rigours of war; the marches, the bullets and the fear of death in battle. But it falls to them instead to be the ones who have to send young men and women into peril, to face death maybe, and so there is fear for them too. The Dean and the Master, old men both, sat silently musing over the circumstances which were forcing them to put in mortal danger a person whom they both loved so very dearly that it turned their hearts to ice to think of her coming to harm.


	2. The Zeppelin

****

The Zeppelin

'There's something very wrong.'

'What do you mean, Pan?'

'I mean that we're being lied to.'

'Lied to? By who? The Dean? The Master? You must be wrong, Pan. I've known them for years. They're decent men. They wouldn't lie to me.'

'Sit down, Lyra.'

Lyra and Pantalaimon were in their rooms. A shower had caught them on the way back from the Dean's House and they were both soaked. Lyra had hung her gown and mortarboard in front of the small fire which her scout had made up while they was out. The human and her daemon sat in one of the chairs next to the grate. The firelight was reflected off the polished fronts of the bookshelves which stood against the opposite wall of the room. It six o'clock and beginning to get dark. Soon the scout would return with a taper to light the lamps.

'I'd kill for a bun.' Pantalaimon's nose twitched. 'It was no fun at all, watching you and those decayed old men stuffing yourselves with sandwiches and cake.'

'Go and get one, then.' The daemon ran into the small kitchen which, together with a private bathroom, separated Lyra's study from her bedroom. Lyra could hear him scrabbling around in the cupboards, there was a small cry of triumph, and then the patter of his paws as he ran across the wooden floor and sprang into her lap. A Marlborough bun fell from Pantalaimon's mouth in a shower of crumbs and sugar crystals and landed on Lyra's clothes.

'Ooof! You're putting on weight, daemon. And you're wet!'

'Impossible. All in your imagination. I'm a metaphysical creature, remember?'

'So why do you like buns? They're not very metaphysical! Just messy!' Lyra smoothed her hand across her skirt, gathering up the fragments and tossing them into the fire, where they flared in sparks of orange and blue. Pantalaimon smirked and preened his fur which had suddenly, you might say metaphysically, become dry, soft and silky.

'Now then. Why do you think we're being lied to?'

'It's not lying, exactly. They're just not telling us everything they know.'

'Why do you say that?'

'What did they say about the alethiometer?' Lyra's hand instinctively patted the pocket where the instrument lay, checking that it was safe.

'The Master said that they hoped I'd be able to find out exactly why the King had called the Council.'

'That's right. But then straight away he said not to bother. Didn't that strike you as odd?'

'I suppose so. Actually, I felt a little insulted. It was as if he was saying that they couldn't wait the time it would have taken me to read the alethiometer and find the answer.'

'Because you're very quick with it these days.'

'I am! I'm nearly as quick with it as I was when… when…' 

'Yes.'

A brief silence.

'The thing is, Lyra, they didn't want you to discover what's going on _before_ you agreed that we'd go to London. They thought that if you knew _why_ the King had called the Council you might say no.'

'No? I'd never say that! Not to the Master. Wait, yes. I see what you're saying… There was something else too, about not being able to trust the alethiometer. That it might be confused. I didn't understand that properly.'

'No. Me neither. How could the oracle be confused?'

'I don't know. Why don't we…'

'Talk to Will tonight? You know why we can't do that.'

'Yes.' Lyra stared at the floor. 'I know why.'

A King's Council is, as the Master of Jordan said, a rare occurrence. As a rule, the usual mechanisms of government – the Civil Service, the armed forces and the police – are sufficient to manage the everyday running of the Kingdom of Brytain and its associated Empire. The King rules, his ministers govern, and all is, generally speaking, done properly and in a carefully considered fashion.

Every now and then, however, something crops up that falls outside the remit of Government. War, or the threat of invasion. Sedition, or the threat of insurrection. An economic crisis. Or, perhaps a more subtle danger, difficult for those people to grasp whose lives are buried deep in the minutiae of administrative detail.

At such times the King calls a Council, composed of representatives of the parts of the life of the nation which usually operate outside, or only loosely associated with, the work of Government. Among these institutions are counted the great Universities and Colleges; and of those Colleges it is Jordan that is paramount. Jordan College's representative at a King's Council is, therefore, a very significant and important person, who may expect to be treated appropriately.

Thus when a car, glossy in black and silver, called at the entrance of Jordan to collect Professor Belacqua, it was not to take her directly to London, for the roads were not yet of a high enough standard, nor to the station, although it was but half a mile from the College and the trains ran frequently to Paddington. Instead it carried her, her daemon, her modest luggage and a portable set of the Books Of Reading And Interpretation to a field by the Witney Road where an airship, bouncing and swaying in the gusting wind, waited to transport them to Falkeshall Gardens.

Pantalaimon looked up at the silver bulk of the Zeppelin, tugging against its mooring ropes twenty feet above their heads. 'This is ridiculous, Lyra. We'll be sick all the way. What's wrong with the train?'

A uniformed officer of the King's Flight stepped up to them and saluted. 'King's Councillor?'

'Yes. I am Professor Belacqua.'

'This way please, Madam Professor.'

They were shown to the base of the mooring mast, where a lift carried them up fifty feet to the forward passenger entrance.

'My things?'

'Are being loaded now, Madam Professor. Please follow the attendant to the passenger lounge.' A steward led them gingerly down a set of aluminium steps and along a passageway to a large room, full of lightweight chairs and tables. Behind a railing wide windows gave a panoramic view of the ground below. The whole room was empty, but for themselves. They took a chair next to the window and watched the ground lurching from side to side.

'I _am_ going to be sick!'

'Don't be silly, Pan. It'll all settle down once we're airborne.'

The stop-captain cried 'Ship away!', the ground crew released the mooring lines and with a roar of her engines the airship leapt into the sky and pointed her nose south-east for London. The westerly wind caught the Zeppelin's tail-fins, sending her careering sideways across the sky. Standing in the control gondola the go-captain studied the altimeter and log and shook his head grimly, while the helmsman wrestled with the steering wheel. _Special mission, indeed!_

Two men, in a subterranean room. Facing away from each other, their faces cowled. Avoiding one another's eyes. Speaking in muffled voices.

'They've left Oxford?'

'Ten minutes ago.'

'And the wind?'

'Gusting to gale force.'

'Have the men been paid?'

'Not yet.'

'Don't bother, then.'

'Why not?'

'I do not think that they will be collecting their money.'

Three hundred feet above the two men, on top of the towers and spires of the Palace of Westminster, the pennants were thrashing wildly at the flagpoles, the rising wind pulling at their fibres, tearing them to rags and tatters.


	3. The Storm

**_The Storm_**

****

Judy Parry looked up from her computer screen. The wind was hissing and moaning against the window and swirling around the eaves of the house, spoiling her concentration and making her lose the thread of the story she was writing. There was a soft creaking, scarcely audible, and her five-year-old son John pushed open the door of the attic room where she sat.

'John! You should be in bed!'

'I'm scared, Mummy. Is it a big storm? Is the house going to fall down on us?'

'No, silly. Come here.'

The boy sat on her lap. His daemon Rosalind crouched on his shoulder, otter-formed. 'Are you making up a new story? Is it about Daddy?'

'Yes, I'm writing a story, but it's not about Daddy. It's about a silly panda who gets himself lost in the bamboo forest.'

'Is the panda called Lyra?'

'No, the panda's not called Lyra. That's a girl's name. His name's Nigel. Now, back to bed! I'll come and see you in a few minutes. Go on!'

'Where's Daddy?'

'Daddy's at work, at the hospital. He'll be home in a while. Night-night, John. Night-night, Rosie.'

John let himself down carefully from his mother's lap. 'Night-night, Mummy.'

'Sleep tight, Johnny.' The door closed behind the boy and his daemon.

Judy turned back to her computer, but found the story had died on her. She no longer cared whether Nigel the panda ever found his home in the Garden Of Celestial Happiness. 

_'Lyra, Lyra, Lyra! _Always_ Lyra!_ Oh Skaven, will this never end?'

Victor Reigali found Giovanni Bellini in the kitchen of his villa. He had walked all the way up the lane which zig-zagged from the centre of the town of Cittagazze, fighting the furious air every step of the way. The old man looked up from his place by the stove. The wind shrieked and whistled in the chimney.

'Victor! What brings you here?'

'Signore Bellini, I am looking for Guili. She was not with the women in the Town Hall.'

The shutters of the villa windows were rattling and banging, making it difficult for the men to hear each other speak.

'They are waiting there, are they?'

'Yes, Signore. They are waiting for the men to return.'

'They will not return.'

Victor's face turned white. 'You mean – they will be killed?'

'I mean they will not return now, today. They will stay at sea, until the storm dies down. Giancarlo is weather-wise. He will know what to do.'

'Yes… yes. But where is Guili, if she is not waiting with the others?'

'They have a place, she and Carlo. You will find her there. I have some things that you can take to her.'

The waves were breaking hard against the far harbour wall, sending white sheets of spindrift flying over the promenade and the buildings which faced the sea. Victor found Guilietta Bellini where her father had told him he would, sitting on one of the steps which led down to the quayside. Wordlessly he handed her a waterproof cloak, and she wrapped it around her shoulders. He stood next to her.

'Carlo is brave and clever. He will not let his boat sink, or his men drown.'

Guilietta turned her face to Victor. He could see the moisture in the corners of her deep-brown eyes and he knew that it had not come from the wind-lashed waters below them. 'I know. But I will wait for him. I will see him when he returns, and I will be the first to greet him.'

'I will wait with you.' Victor sat down next to the girl and, greatly daring, put an arm around her shoulder. 'See! I have a flask of coffee. We will wait together.'

The violent buffeting motion of the airship had reduced considerably, although the hissing of the wind and the roaring of the engines were as loud as ever. Lyra carefully rose to her feet. The floor beneath her was, she though, steady enough that she would be able to make her way across it with out being in too much danger of being thrown against the walls, or the table and chairs, and being hurt. She staggered to the railing and looked down out of the window. A white light was pouring up through them; sunlight reflected from the tops of the clouds which tore and streamed below. Hand over hand she made her way along the railings, into the passageway and along to the stairwell which led down to the control gondola. Pantalaimon followed, hugging the floor, gripping it with his claws. They climbed down the stair, one cautious step at a time.

'Sir Captain!' The go-captain looked up from his chart. 'What is happening? Where are we?'

'Madam Professor, you should not be here! This area is out of bounds to passengers!'

'But I _am_ here, Sir Captain. Can you tell me what is going on? Are we in danger?' Lyra took a tight hold of a stanchion. The howling of the wind and the bellowing of the engines were twice as loud here in the gondola as they had been in the hull of the airship. The go-captain considered. The Professor was a King's Councillor, and entitled to know their situation.

'There is a great storm, Madam Professor. The wind is blowing hard from the west and it has made it impossible for us to follow our intended course to London. We have ascended to ten thousand feet – which is above the worst of the storm – and we have heaved to, which is to say that we have turned our bows to the wind and we are using the engines and tail-fins to maintain a steady position and angle.'

'Do we have enough fuel for the engines, Sir Captain?'

'The tanks are not full, Madam Professor, for we were only intending to travel to Falkeshall, disembark you there, and then go to Hownslow Field to refuel. We have only about four hours' endurance left.'

'And the lift? Do we have enough spare gas and ballast aboard to stay at this altitude?'

'I see that you have flown before, Madam Professor.'

'Yes, Sir Captain, in balloons and dirigibles. But; how do we stand for lift?'

'If there are no leaks in the ballonets or any other losses, we can stay aloft for at least two weeks. Do not worry about our buoyancy reserves, Madam Professor.'

'Thank you, Sir Captain. I have only one other question. Would you normally fly in these conditions? I mean, were you surprised to be ordered to fly today, or that the stop-captain was permitted to hand command over to you?'

'Madam Professor, you are a King's Councillor and this is the most well-founded vessel in the King's Flight. And yet… perhaps some might say that for such a short journey it was not strictly necessary for you to travel by air. Of course, I do not call my orders into question, you understand.'

'I understand perfectly, Sir Captain. You have been very helpful and your discretion does you credit. May I stay here in the gondola? Is there somewhere I can sit that's out of the way?'

'Take my seat, Madam Professor. I shall do very well where I am.'

The go-captain bent to his chart. The helmsman gripped the wheel, the tendons standing out on the back of his hands. White cloud-light flooded the gondola, casting shadow-images of the windows on the roof above.

Pantalaimon whispered in Lyra's ear. 'I bet we're the only ship flying today.'

'Yes, Pan, I'm sure we are.'

'Do you think we were ever meant to get as far as London?'

Lyra looked around the gondola. 'These are brave men, Pan. Honourable too, I think. They know what it means, to do your duty and to follow orders.'

'But who is giving the orders?'

'Who indeed, Pan? Who indeed?'


	4. The Oracle

**__**

The Oracle

The stop-captain's head had been jerked over to the right by the knot of the rope which had hanged him. A wooden chair lay on its side on the floor beneath his dangling feet. On the desk nearby was a typewritten note, in which the officer confessed to a terrible error of professional judgement in allowing a Zeppelin of the King's Flight to go aloft in near-hurricane conditions. It was a clear case of suicide, as the Coroner's Court would no doubt conclude.

Lyra took the alethiometer out of its travelling bag and held it out in front of her. The pointer jiggled from side to side as the airship was battered by the storm-winds that still raged around it. This was not going to be an easy reading.

Although he had said nothing, it had become clear to Lyra that the go-captain was becoming increasingly worried about their chances of surviving the storm. The airship had held its position for the past three hours, but that meant that only one hour's fuel remained in its reserves. It would be impossible for the ship to steer safely to the ground, let alone moor at a mast, if it were without power. They would soon have to cut the engines and let the gale blow them where it would.

'Why not do just that?' said Pantalaimon. 'This storm won't last for ever. It doesn't really matter if we end up in Frankland, or Danemark, or Doytchland. We'll still get back home all right.'

'There are high mountains to the east of here, Pan. We'd be dashed up against them and wrecked.'

There was no question of Lyra using the Books to help with the reading. They were stowed away in the aircraft's hold and were impossible to reach. It would have to be done by Lyra alone, without aid and with the instrument's needle made hard to follow by the shaking of the ship. And what question should she ask it?

'Sir Captain?'

'Madam Professor?'

'I propose conducting a divination of the oracle, using the alethiometer, to seek guidance as to what we should do. Will you follow its advice?'

'An alethiometer, eh?' The go-captain considered. 'It is not standard procedure, Madam Professor. If I choose to base my command decisions on the advice of an oracle, rather than the tried-and-tested procedures that have been laid down for the direction of the King's Flight, then I am laying myself open to a reprimand at the very least if the outcome is favourable, and to a trial by court-martial if the outcome is unfavourable.'

'Sir Captain, you are quite right. Shall we say, then, that if you consider that the oracle's advice seems sound to you, you will adopt it as your own command decision. If it seems ridiculous or dangerous to you, then you can simply dismiss it, and nothing will have been said.'

The frame of the airship creaked and groaned ominously as it was pushed and pulled by the force of the wind. The go-captain considered further. 'Very well, Madam Professor. I will hear your oracle.'

'What should I ask it, Sir Captain? Remember that the alethiometer can only divine the truth _as it is_. It cannot predict the future, nor does it have any opinions of its own, nor can it make guesses. The simpler and more direct the question you ask, the more certain it is that the answer will also be both simple and direct. For example, you might chose to ask it if we will reach the ground safely. Its answer would either be meaningless or plain wrong, as that would be asking it to speculate about the future. Or you might ask it _What are our chances of survival_, and it might answer _fifty percent_, which would not help us in the slightest.'

'What would _you_ ask it, Madam Professor?'

Lyra thought for a moment. 'I would ask _In which direction lies safety?_'

The go-captain bowed. 'I concur. Divine your oracle, Madam Professor. And read well!'

Lyra set the three pointers of the instrument and framed the question in her mind. Instantly, the moving needle began to spin, stopping briefly at the symbols which were inscribed around the bezel, then moving on. As she had feared, Lyra found it difficult to be sure exactly which symbols the needle had indicated, as the Zeppelin lurched and swayed and her hands shook with the effort of holding the alethiometer steady.

After five minutes of intense concentration she had a result, but it was the most uncertain reading she had conducted for many years, ever since she had achieved her mastery of the instrument.

'Sir Captain, I have an answer.'

'What is it, Madam Professor?'

'The oracle says _There is an eye in the south_. Is that answer meaningful to you, Sir Captain? Is it advice that you would follow? I must add that this has been a very difficult interpretation for me.'

'Do you trust the oracle?'

'I do. It is my interpretation of it that I am uncertain of.'

'Could you ask it,' the go-captain pointed to the alethiometer, 'again? Check its answer?'

'It is not possible, Sir Captain, to ask the oracle the same question repeatedly. It will refuse to answer a second time.'

'Then I will follow its advice, Madam Professor. I strongly suggest that you permit me to secure you in your seat. This is going to be a very bumpy ride!'

The go-captain took webbing straps and shackles from a locker and showed Lyra how to attach them to the seat and how to wrap them around herself. Pantalaimon took shelter inside her coat.

'Helmsman!'

'Sir?'

'Hard-a-port!'

'Hard-a-port! Aye-aye Sir!' The Zeppelin, its engines running at full power, heeled over to the left and its hundred-yard-long frame shook and quivered as it took the full blast of the storm. The floor of the gondola reared up and Lyra was thrown violently against the restraints that held her in her seat. 

'Any news yet?'

'No.'

'It will not be long now.'

'Are you sure? This is a King's Ship we are talking about, no ordinary vessel.'

'This is no ordinary storm.'


	5. The Palace of Hampton Court

**__**

The Palace of Hampton Court

The equerry knocked discreetly on the door and waited for a reply. Hearing none, he stood for a few seconds and then knocked again, rather more forcefully this time.

'Come in!'

Pushing down on the door handle with his elbow, for he was encumbered by a large box of documents, the functionary entered the room. From behind an elaborately carved ormolu desk His Majesty Alfred II, King of England, Lord of the Isles, Emperor of India, Defender of the Faith and many other titles, most of them purely honorary, looked up. '_More_ papers, Alan?'

'Yes, sire. I'm afraid so.'

'Put them down there.' The box landed on the carpeted floor with an audible thud. 'What does Harold think he's doing, eh, Alan?'

'I could not say, sire.' The equerry read the note which was tucked into the top left-hand corner of the box, tied down with a piece of red silk. 'The PM's office present their duty and entreat your majesty to give his consideration to the urgent matters contained within, sire.'

'Just the usual everyday bumf, then.'

'Quite so, sire.'

'Thank you, Alan.' The equerry left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him.

'You're too soft on him.' The king's panther-daemon rested her chin on his knee. 'It's his job to sort out the really important stuff, not yours.'

'Take a look at them for me, would you Eleanor?'

With unconscious grace the panther moved to the side of the desk where the box lay, and bit through the tapes which held it closed. 'What's in there?'

'Land reform bill for signing,' she lifted a sheaf of papers in her jaws and put them down on the floor, 'financial stuff from the Admiralty, a petition…'

'A petition?'

'From the people of the village of Much Matchingham who beg your gracious consent to erect a statue in your honour…'

'Granted!'

'And a letter from the PM inviting you to Chequers next month for a long weekend. How on earth did it get mixed up with that lot?' Eleanor dropped the letter in Alfred's lap. 'Are we going?'

'If the queen doesn't object, yes. Harry's a good sort. He just needs to get his office people better organised!'

The king looked despairingly at the piles of official documents which covered the desk. 'Look at all that lot! If I didn't know better, I'd say…'

'I'd say we _do_ know better. Let's go for a walk.'

The grounds of Hampton Court Palace amount to fifty acres or so and are, except for the famous maze, mostly laid to lawn. They make the perfect location for a _private_ talk, among people who would rather not be overheard. It was not at all unusual for the King to walk by himself – without human company, that is – and think over matters of state.

'You were saying, Eleanor?'

'Can we get out of this gale?'

The king and his daemon made for the shelter of a rhododendron bush.

'I was saying that…'

'If you didn't know better…'

'We were being intentionally overloaded with paperwork…'

'To distract us from…'

'What's really on our mind. Yes, You're right. We seem to be getting three or four boxes a day…'

'Instead of only one or two, as we used to.'

'Yes. I'm beginning to wish we'd not said anything to anyone about our reasons for calling this Council. The reception's tonight, isn't it?'

'Yes, Alfred. In the Amber Hall in Westminster, at eight. It's not for hours yet.'

'It's beastly weather. I suppose all the Councillors will be able to get here in time.'

'They're all here now, except for the delegate from Jordan.'

'How do you know that? Did I miss something?'

'Only a chance remark at lunch. Father James said something about academics and their lackadaisical ways.'

'There's no love lost there!'

'Between Jordan and the Church? No, there isn't.'

'Well, never mind. There are plenty of trains from Oxford to Paddington for the Jordan man to take, I expect. He'll be along soon enough. I wonder if they're sending old George, or if it'll be Leonard this time.'

'We'll find out tonight. Let's go back in. You're getting wet.'

The gardener who had been diligently hoeing the flowerbed behind the rhododendron bush thought about what he had overheard. No, there had been nothing so important that it couldn't wait until the afternoon tea break and his regular meeting with his spiritual advisor.


	6. The Palace of Westminster

**__**

The Palace of Westminster

The windsock, which had been threatening all day to pull itself free of its mountings and go flying down the Isis estuary and across the Northern Sea, suddenly stopped its desperate flapping and hung down against its gantry. The sun had been invisible behind grey scudding clouds for most of the day, but now it shone out of the west, illuminating a red and silver disk which was rapidly growing larger in the east; a second sun or moon.

'_Ship to Dock!_' The on-watch of the Deptford Naval Station ran from their ready-room, alerted to the incoming airship by the clang of the alarm bell. The ship slowed as it approached the station's mooring mast, and the duty stop-captain wondered why only two of the aircraft's engines were running_. They've got no safety margin at all. And what on earth were they doing up today? All flights were grounded this morning! Stars above, they've taken a bashing!_

The ropes were dropped and fastened to the ground-quoits. Slowly the airship nosed up to the mooring mast, but just as it approached it, the starboard engine spluttered and stopped, making the ship veer off to the right. _What in the name of the Holy Magdelena and all the saints are they up to? Are they mad?_ A quick tug on the forward port groundline pulled the airship back to the mast and with a clank and a sigh the static cup engaged the nose-pin and the craft was safely moored. The ship's covering fabric was ripped and hanging loosely from the frame, which was visibly distorted. The starboard tail-fin had been torn away.

The go-captain dropped his lock-token from the gondola window to the ground, surrendering command of his vessel to the stop-captain. He turned to Lyra. 'Madam Professor? If you would care to step down from the ship now, I will arrange for your luggage to be offloaded.'

'Sir Captain, you must call me Lyra. I owe you very a great deal. I have rarely seen such skill and courage as you and your men showed today.'

'Thank you, Lyra. I believe that without your assistance we should all have been lost. Please, the next time you are in Witney ask for Captain Isaac Hollins. It would be an honour for me and my fellow officers to entertain you in our mess.'

'I should be delighted, Isaac.'

They shook hands and parted as friends. A naval car stood by the station gate ready to take Lyra to the Palace of Westminster. She took a seat in the back and Pantalaimon wrapped himself around her neck. The car drove out through the iron gates of the dockyard and into the streets of south London.

The woman and her daemon looked over the left shoulder of the driver at the road ahead. It led past street after street of grey houses, hard to make out in the growing darkness.

'Remember the last time, Pan?'

'The last time?'

'The last time we came to London by Zeppelin. Twenty years ago, to my mother's flat on the Embankment. Before we met Will. Before you took your settled form. Before everything.'

'Twenty years ago!'

'More than that.'

'It's funny.' Lyra sat back. The car was driving along the south bank of the river now, heading for London Bridge and the crossing to Westminster. 'It's like history repeating itself. We've left Jordan, and we've arrived in London, and just like last time we've no idea of what's really going on, or what we're letting ourselves in for. I feel almost like a child again.'

'Why not ask the oracle?' The daemon pointed a paw towards Lyra's pocket.

'No, Pan. The alethiometer has saved our lives once already today, telling us which way to steer to find the calm eye of the storm. Once is enough, don't you think?'

The Palace of Westminster stood next to the River Isis, by Westminster Bridge. It was by far the largest and tallest building in the vicinity, rivalled only by St Paul's Cathedral in the City of London, two miles to the east. Lyra's car pulled up by a side entrance and the driver got out.

'I'll go and find someone to let you in,' he said and disappeared into the darkness.

The driver was gone for ages, it seemed to Lyra and Pan, and they were starting to wonder whether he had not made a mistake and taken them to the wrong part of the Palace. Lyra was feeling tired after the journey and beginning to slip into a doze, when there was a knock on the car's window and a palace servant opened the door.

'Lady Belacqua? Lady Lyra Belacqua?'

'Yes.'

'If you would come with me, my lady, I will show you to your apartments.'

Despite her weariness, Lyra could hardly suppress a smile as the servant, gorgeous in blue velvet and gold braid, led her through the entrance and into the Palace of Westminster. _A poodle! He's actually got a poodle-daemon! It matches his wig!_

'Your things will be brought up to you presently, my lady.' They walked down long dim corridors, past wide oak doorways. From time to time, the servant pointed out a feature of interest, 'There is the Whig Office,' or 'That statue is of Sir Clarence Heston, the first Father of the House,' or 'Through that door is the Lobby of the Chamber of Commoners,' or 'The Holy Legate's Oratory is down that way.' They mounted a wide elm staircase and ascended to the second floor.

Lyra was beginning to wonder if the Palace extended for ever in all directions; an endless succession of committee rooms and private offices, Members' Dining Rooms and Civil Service canteens, when the servant stopped outside a green baize door. 'Would you please wait here a moment, my lady.' He passed through the door.

'We seem to be doing a lot of waiting, Lyra.'

'I'm sure we'll be kept waiting around a lot more yet, Pan.'

The servant reappeared, accompanied by a young woman in a white apron and starched cap. 'Now, my lady,' and they started off again. Lyra and Pantalaimon prepared themselves for another long trek, but it was less than five minutes before they reached her room. The marble floor had given way to Turkey carpet, muffling the sound of their footsteps. The woman took out a key from her pocket and opened the door, on which the number eight was painted in gold leaf. She reached inside the door and turned on the anbaric light.

'This is your room, my lady,' she said, and held the door back so that Lyra and Pantalaimon could enter.

'You've got your own bathroom in here, and this is your sitting room, and here's the bedroom. Just let me get the fire going.' The maid struck a lucifer and set its burning tip to a pile of wood in the fireplace. 'There! That'll soon be nice and warm! Now my lady, if you need anything you only have to ring.' She pointed to a bell-pull hanging by the door.

'Thank you. Sorry, I didn't catch your name.' The servant was momentarily nonplussed. 'My name? You want my name? It's Molly, my lady.'

'Molly and?'

The maid clutched her fox-daemon. 'Nicolas, my lady.' She could not hide her astonishment. Why would anyone want to know the name of a servant, let alone her daemon?

'Then thank you Molly, thank you Nicolas. This is Pantalaimon.'

'Thank _you_, my lady. Welcome, Pantalaimon. Now, there's an official reception in the Amber Hall at eight. It's six o'clock now, so you've an hour to rest. Someone will come at seven to help you dress. Is that all right, my lady?'

'Yes, Molly.'

After the maid had left, Lyra looked around the room. It was panelled with wood and there were heavy maroon hangings at the windows. The furnishings were of mahogany and old oak, dark and massive. In the alcoves hung paintings, yellow-brown with ancient varnish, of politicians or courtiers in mediaeval dress. A blackened suit of armour stood in the corner by the door. There was a musty smell, compounded of dust and wax polish.

'What a place!'

'What a place indeed, Pan.'

Molly knocked on the outer door of Lyra's apartments at seven o'clock. There was no reply, so she entered the room. In a chair by the fire sat Lady Belacqua still wearing her travelling clothes, fast asleep, with her pine-marten daemon on her lap. The servant looked down on the pair and felt a warm rush of affection for them. Such a little thing it was – but so kind, too – asking her for her name, and dear Nicky's as well. She shook her mistress's shoulder gently. 'Wake up, my lady. It's time to get ready.'

Lady Belacqua must have been dreaming, for her lips were moving and she was smiling.


	7. The Reception

**__**

The Reception

King Alfred stood outside the doors of the Amber Hall, waiting for his equerry to make sure that all the delegates were assembled within. He could imagine all the fussing about that was taking place; important people who were not used to being ordered about by underlings did not take kindly to being made to stand in a line and wait. It was all down to protocol, the same protocol that determined that the reigning monarch should be the last person to enter a room (except for servitors) and the first to leave.

'No king is above the law, eh?' He stroked Eleanor behind the ears. She growled softly.

'Ready, sire.' The doors opened.

Alfred looked up and down the receiving line. Some of the faces were familiar, some not so familiar. He walked slowly up to the first. The equerry performed the introductions.

'His Reverence Monsignor Jones, Bishop of Caester.'

'Hello Geoff. Glad to see you. And this is?'

'Fra Pavel, my personal chaplain, your majesty. He will be attending the Council with me.'

'Trust you Church chaps to slip in another delegate on the sly. All perfectly within the rules, I'm sure. You are welcome to Westminster, Fra Pavel.'

'Your majesty.' Alfred moved on.

'Lord Dellar, Admiral of the Fleet, Chief of Staff.'

'Brian. You're back from Kathay, then?'

'Got back last week, your majesty. Looking forward to the Council. What've you got for us this time?'

'It's wait and see, I'm afraid.'

'Yes, sire.'

'Mister Arthur Shire, chief seer of the Brytish Gyptian Council.'

'Mister Shire, how do you do? I remember Mister Coram, your predecessor, with much affection.'

The little man smiled briefly. 'He was a good man, your majesty. A very good man.'

'And very gifted too. You have a great deal to live up to, do you not?'

'We shall do our best, sire.'

'Sir Kenneth Wilkins, KC.' The judge was arrayed in his full robes of office, scarlet and gold.

'No black cap today!'

'No, your majesty.'

'I don't think you'll be needing it here.'

'I certainly hope not, sire.' Sir Kenneth was not blessed with a sense of humour.

'Sir Patrick McCormack, Chairman of the Boreal Foundation.'

'Sir Patrick. Glad you could spare us some time from making all those pots of money for the Treasury.'

'It is a privilege to be able to support your government in its good work with our tax contributions, your majesty.' _I'm sure it is!_

'What's good for the Boreal Foundation is good for Brytain, eh, Sir Patrick?'

'Indeed it is, sire.'

The king reached the end of the line. There was only one delegate remaining.

'Lady Lyra Belacqua, Professor of Jordan College, Oxford.' _A woman? They've sent a woman?_

The slight figure standing before him was dressed in severe academic black and white, with her honey-coloured hair constrained in a tight bun at the back of her neck. She curtseyed neatly and looked up to him with bespectacled pale-blue eyes.

'Your majesty.'

'Lady Belacqua. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I trust you had a pleasant journey from Oxford.'

'It was… interesting, sire.'

'Welcome to London. Have you been here before?'

'Yes sire, but it was many years ago.'

'You must let one of my people show you round. You may find that quite a lot has changed since you were last here. Have you spent much time away from Oxford?'

'No sire. I have travelled very little.'

'Well, perhaps we can change that. Look, they've set up a sort of buffet in here, I believe. Shall we go and see what they've laid on for us?'

'I should be delighted, sire.'

Lyra; later, pacing in her room. 'Oh Pan, I wish we'd never agreed to come! I felt so…insignificant! All those important men, freezing us out or patronising us. Or not talking to us at all.'

'Except for the most important one.'

'The King. Yes.' Lyra sat down. 'Why did he talk to me so much? What was he after?'

'You?'

'Me?'

'Didn't you notice? The way he looked at you?'

'You mean he's not interested in my qualifications or abilities at all? He just wants me for a mistress?'

'No. That's not it. Not all of it, anyway. How did he strike you?'

'He was… nice. That's the best word for it. Not terribly clever, but nice. Kind and considerate. He put me at my ease straight away.'

'Not clever. Hmmm. Are you sure about that?' Lyra thought. The tall figure, slightly stooped as if he was used to ducking his head in doorways, or having to look downwards to speak to people. The iron-grey hair, the slightly mocking tone of his voice. The languid gestures he used, the lazy smile that was never far from his lips, his spectacularly beautiful daemon. All these things were inviting her to underestimate him…

'No, I'm not sure.'

Alfred; later, in the State Apartments in the Palace of Westminster.

'What the hell's going on, Eleanor? What are Jordan playing at?'

'Be careful with Professor Belacqua. They may be more to her than there appears.'

'I will be. But why have Jordan sent us a junior professor, still wet behind the ears?'

'She's thirty-five.'

'She's a kid when it comes to politics. She may know all about her subject – she may be a world authority in it for all I know – but she'll be completely out of her depth in a Council. That lot'll eat her up and spit her out!'

'Jordan wouldn't have sent her if they didn't think she would give a good account of herself. They're not stupid.'

The king paused. 'They're not, are they? Do you think they want to influence me in… in another way?'

'You like her, don't you?'

'Yes, very much.'

'You could be tempted?'

'I could, but I'm not sure that she would consent.'

'That's part of her appeal, isn't it?'

'Yes, of course. But, for heaven's sake, Jordan wouldn't be _that_ crude, would they?'

'They might. They might, for example, know about Elizabeth.'

Alfred sat down on the bed. 'They might, at that. They might think they've identified a weakness they can exploit. Let's see what _we_ can find out. Alan!' He raised his voice. 'Alan!'

The equerry stuck his head around the door. 'Sire?'

'There's a little job I'd like you to do for me. A little bit of research.'


	8. The Star Chamber

**__**

The Star Chamber

'You have failed!'

'The circumstances were extraordinary. Professor Belacqua could not reasonably have been expected to survive the storm.'

'But she did survive it, and now I have the blood of an innocent man on my hands. All for nothing.'

'Not for nothing. She will be tired and disoriented. She will not cut an impressive figure in Council.'

'She won't need to. Not if Alfred continues to make a fool of himself over her.'

'You noticed, then.'

'I couldn't miss it. Nobody could. He couldn't keep his eyes off her.'

'Strange. She is not exactly the most beautiful of women, is she? Especially when compared with some of the others whom we know the King has taken.'

'She's a scrawny little thing, I'd say.'

'If you had an opinion on the matter. Of course, as a celibate…'

'Enough! What are we going to do now?'

'We cannot prevent her from attending the Council meeting. Another gross physical attempt to stop her would be too obvious and would attract unwelcome attention. Instead we must ensure either that her views are not heard, or that they are disregarded.'

'Sideline her, you mean? How do you propose we do that?'

'We may not need to do anything. She is naive and inexperienced. She will make mistakes of argument or protocol. We must use those mistakes to make her appear ignorant and foolish.'

'Let her do our work for us, you mean.'

'Precisely.'

King Alfred sat at breakfast, studying the note which Alan had placed next to his kaffee cup. He frowned as he read it.

__

Professor Belacqua (the note read)_ has lived in Oxford, within the purlieu of Jordan College, for most of her life._

She is nominally the daughter of the Marquis Belacqua, who was killed, along with his wife, in an airship accident in her early childhood. It is known, however, that her father was in fact the Lord Asriel and her mother was a Mrs Coulter, who was a demi-courtesan during your father's reign.

She is believed to have been closely involved in the Millennial Events. Her movements around that time are not well documented and what was recorded then may have been lost since, as so much else was lost. She was then aged twelve or thirteen. Both of her parents disappeared during the Events and have not been seen thereafter.

The most significant fact, for the purposes of the Council, is that she acquired a working alethiometer during the Events and has spent her life since then in its study, gaining great expertise in its use and interpretation.

In addition there is the suggestion that she may have a family connection with someone at a high level in the Boreal Foundation.

'Bloody hell!'

'Alfred?'

'There's something going on here, Eleanor. This Professor Belacqua's an alethiometrist.'

'That'll be useful.'

'Thank you, daemon. I've worked that one out for myself. But there's something else. She's a bastard child of old Asriel's…'

'Your father's friend?'

'Yes. But she's also linked in some way with the Boreals. And – she's Jordan through and through. She's lived there all her life.'

'So you think she's somebody's stooge?'

'Yes, but I can't tell whose! Is she representing Jordan or the Foundation?' 

'Or somebody else altogether?'

'Kir?'

'What is it, Will?'

'Yesterday. Around seven o'clock. When we thought…'

'When _you_ thought…'

'That Lyra and Pan were trying to talk to us. You would tell me, wouldn't you, if they tried to make contact?'

'We made a promise to Judy and Skaven. We have to think of _them_ now, John and Rosalind too.'

'And we're going to keep that promise. I know. But, all the same…'

'Will, I understand. Of course I do. But; as it was in the world of the mulefa, or with the Knife at Stonehenge, so it must be with Lyra now. We will keep our promise not to try to talk to Pan and Lyra, and only to respond to them if the need is urgent – a matter of life and death.'

'Life and death, you say. Lyra has talked with her Death before. I think he has been very close to her this last day or two.'

Professor Lyra Belacqua took a deep breath and stepped into the Star Chamber. All the men – and it looked as if she was the last to arrive, except for the King – rose to their feet. A footman guided her to a seat at the round table that stood in the centre of the room, dominating it. To her left sat the military man she had met at the reception the night before. He was wearing full naval uniform, his hat placed upside down on the table before him. 'Your Ladyship,' he said, turning to face her.

'Good morning, Lord Dellar.' The admiral's monkey-daemon nodded respectfully to Pantalaimon. Lyra turned to the right and saw that she was sitting next to the odd little Gyptian man who had spoken so little to her the night before.

'Did you sleep well, Mr Shire?'

He scarcely looked at her. 'Yes thank you, Lady Belacqua.' Lyra could not see his magpie-daemon. She must have been hiding in the pocket of his ill-fitting suit.

__

Why won't he talk to me? Any chance Lyra may have had to try to engage Mister Shire in conversation evaporated as two footmen flung open the double doors at the far end of the room and the King entered. Everyone stood up.

The footmen closed the doors, King Alfred took his seat, and Lyra noticed that, although the table was round and there was supposed to be no special status attached to any particular seat at it, nevertheless the King's chair was set in such a way that her attention seemed to focus on it automatically. _What a clever room this is, this Star Chamber!_

The King spoke: 'Good morning to you all. Good heavens, I'm sure this tower grows higher, and the stairs become steeper, ever time I come here. Let me start by extending my personal thanks to every one of you for responding so generously to my call for a King's Council. I know that you are all very busy people and I can assure you that I would not have asked you to abandon your duties and come to London if there was no need.

'What _is_ the need? Why have I called this Council? On the surface, all is well with the Commonwealth of Great Brytain, and with her Dominions around the world. Trade prospers, does it not, Sir Patrick?'

'Yes it does, your majesty,' the industrialist replied.

'There is peace at home and abroad, Lord Dellar?'

'Barring some rumblings in the Rheinland yes, your majesty.'

'Justice is being done, Sir Kenneth?'

'And being seen to be done, your majesty.'

'The nation is in good spiritual health?' The King looked towards the Bishop of Caester.

'As good as may be expected, your majesty.'

'You clerics! You're just like the farmers! You can't get them to admit it when they're doing well either!'

The bishop smiled a thin, narrow smile.

'Mr Shire. Do the stars foretell any threats to the safety of our great Empire?'

'No, your majesty.'

'And you, Lady Belacqua. Do the Colleges prosper? Does Learning walk hand in hand with Wisdom across the quadrangles of our universities?'

'Indeed it does, your majesty.' _What is he leading up to?_

'All seems to be well, then. And yet… And yet I am not happy. There _is_ something – something in the governance of Brytain that is not sound. It is a canker which, if we do not cut it out, will devour the heart of the State, and lead to its downfall. It is something which has been giving me great trouble in my mind and which has finally led me to call this Council.' The King's voice had lost its light casual tone now. He was speaking in deadly earnest.

'We must make a choice in this Council that will affect our futures for all foreseeable time to come. If we choose well, we will live and grow. If we choose wrongly, then I foresee that in less than twenty years we will not be living, as we do now, in a prosperous society that is at peace with itself but in a state of desperate and bloody anarchy. Brytain will fall; and if Brytain falls, can any nation hope to stand?'

The King's eyes focussed on each of the Councillors in turn. 'It to you that I turn now. Together we must decide what we must do in order to save our country.'


	9. The Title

**__**

The Title

Lyra leaned against the parapet of the Westminster Bridge, Pantalaimon beside her on the top of the stone wall. It was midday and the Council had been adjourned for a couple of hours. The great bulk of the Palace of Westminster on her right was brightly lit by the noontide sun, casting a warm red-brick glow over the waters of the river Isis.

'I couldn't stand it any longer, Pan.'

'You're missing a good lunch.'

'I'm not hungry.'

They were silent for a minute. The never-ending flow of goods and passenger traffic passed over the bridge behind them. Beneath their feet, the river barges chugged stolidly upstream through the arches of the bridge, heading for Richemond, Remenham, Abingdon and, eventually, Oxford. Lyra was briefly seized by the impulse to leap from the bridge, land on the tarpaulin covering of one of the barges and let it carry her back home to Jordan College.

'This isn't like you.'

'I don't _feel_ like me. I haven't felt so all at sea since... since the first time I walked into the Senior Common Room in Jordan. All those eyes looking at me. All those men wondering what I'm doing there. I feel as if I have to prove myself to them all the time.'

'You don't, you know.'

'Yes Pan, I know, but I just couldn't stay there. I had to get away.'

'We're missing things! All the really important discussions happen in the corridors, over sandwiches, not in the Star Chamber.'

'Just like Jordan, then.'

'Just like Jordan.'

'We'll have to go back soon.'

'Let's wait a little longer.'

Lyra turned to the right and looked up at the Palace, towering three hundred feet into the sky. _All that power. This building announces its importance in every detail of its construction, from its great halls to its gothic spires. It's designed to overwhelm you and make you feel small and insignificant. Don't let it._

Lyra sighed, held out a hand for Pantalaimon, and walked slowly across the bridge back to the Palace of Westminster.

__

Disestablishment. That was the word. That was the idea too – the idea which had been buried for hundreds of years, all the way back to the sixteenth century and the reign of King Henry Tudor. Henry the Great he was called (but _Henry the Adulterer_ too). It was King Henry who, faced with a Pope who would not sanction the divorce he needed in order to marry a queen who would give him a boy-child, had declared himself Defender Of The Faith and made the Government and the Church one combined ruling body under his personal control. The Church and Government were united - with priests sitting in the Chamber of Commoners and bishops taking their places in the House of Peers.

Secular Members of the Chamber were elected to their positions and were expected to represent the interests of their constituents. The Church was entitled to a half-share of the seats in both the Chamber and the House and chose its appointees itself, with the utmost care. The king ruled over all, in name at least.

The system was clearly unfair and undemocratic, but those dissenting voices who espoused the cause of disestablishmentarianism had long been suppressed; by the Church and often by secular forces too. Those forces had been in control for over four hundred years, and there had seemed to be no reason why the rule of the Magisterium should not continue for ever, supported by the dark power of the Court of Consistory Discipline.

Twenty years ago, however, there had been a change. Lyra knew, more than almost anybody else, what that change had been, and how it related to the Millennial Events. And more recently the destruction of the Subtle Knife of the Torre degli Angeli had triggered fundamental changes in the underlying structure of the multiverse – or, to be precise, had allowed it to revert to its former structure.

The power of the Church was waning, and ideas which had once been ruthlessly proscribed were now common currency. People were beginning to wonder why the voices of their elected representatives should always be subservient to those of the self-appointed clergy. King Alfred knew this; and he could foresee a time when those voices would demand to be heard and would take up arms if they were denied. The message to the Church was clear: _Give up your power now and gracefully, or be forced out by bloody revolution_.

How could this transfer of power be managed? How could the Church – deeply embedded as it was in the government of the country – be made to see that change was inevitable? That was why the King had called his Council.

Arthur Shire was on the bridge too, watching the boats with longing eyes and thinking his own thoughts. Lyra said nothing to him as she passed, and he made no attempt to speak to her.

The Council reconvened at two o'clock, signalled by the massive tolling of Old William in the great clock tower at the western extent of the Palace. Lyra took her place again, closely followed by the little gyptian man. She had said little during the morning session, preferring to gauge the mood of the Council by listening to what was said. She had learned little. Everyone present, with the exception of Arthur Shire and herself, was a skilled politician, expert in the art of appearing to speak well while saying nothing of substance and promising even less. It was not clear to her if they were discussing _whether_ the Church should be separated from the State or, with that already a given thing, the issue was _how_ it should be done. The bishop and his chaplain were being especially non-committal, Lyra noticed.

The Council deliberated. There was no shape to its deliberations – the whole thing was quite formless, so far as Lyra could tell. _It's as if we were all lost in a strange country, only some of us have got maps of that country and some of us haven't. Everyone's talking in a foreign language. I can't tell what anyone believes._ And: _What on earth am I doing here?_

Lyra's musing was interrupted by the Bishop's voice. 'Lady Belacqua, we have not heard from you yet. I wonder if you could let the Council have the benefit of your thoughts on the issue of derogation?'

__

Lady Belacqua again! Lyra had had enough of _My Lady_ and _Your Ladyship_ over the past twenty-four hours. Her temper flared.

'My Lord Bishop, I have earned the position of Endowed Professor of English at Jordan College in the University of Oxford by my own efforts. My title came to me by the merest accident of birth. I am generally addressed as Madam Professor, and you would do me the utmost kindness if you were to employ that particular honorific in connection with myself.'

'Madam Professor, I am your most humble servant and I greatly regret the gross solecism which I have committed.'

There was an absolute silence. Lyra's eyes were drawn, as before, to the head of the round table and to the face of the king. And then she realised what it was that she had done.

King Alfred's expression was unreadable. Lord Dellar, gallant military man that he was and meaning only to help, leapt to Lyra's defence only to stumble head-first into the abyss that she had opened up.

'Sire, I am sure that Professor Belacqua meant no disrespect. Everyone knows that your majesty earns the honour and respect of us all, by his ceaseless striving in the interests of our great Brytish Empire.'

'And yet,' Alfred's voice was almost causal, 'my own position as monarch is but an inherited one, handed down to me by my father. I am very grateful to you, Madam Professor, for your assistance in this matter. One cannot be reminded too often of one's responsibilities.' He inclined his head slightly towards her.

The Bishop of Caester leaned over to his chaplain. 'Pavel, you were right. If I were her, I should withdraw from the Council now.'

'We shall see. Perhaps, however, we can draw her into a further indiscretion, or force her to make another gross error. We must utterly discredit her if we can. This is an embarrassment, nothing more.'

'Gentlemen! Madam Professor! May we continue, please?' King Alfred looked away from Lyra, releasing her.

__

Will! If only you could be here! I've never needed you more than I do now! How could I have missed such an obvious trap? 

Pantalaimon spoke so that only Lyra could hear. 'It was hidden inside another one. We have subtle enemies, Lyra, and Will can't help us. It's all down to you and me. We'll show them. Don't forget – there's something special that only you can see. Something only you can tell.

'The truth, Lyra. Tell them the truth!'


	10. The Alethiometer

**__**

The Alethiometer

It was now the beginning of the second day of the King's Council. The previous day's meeting had broken up at five o'clock. Lyra, who had taken little part in the afternoon's work, had fled gratefully to her room and the kind ministrations of Molly.

The maid had seen instantly that something was wrong. 'My lady!' Somehow, Lyra didn't mind it coming from her. 'Sit yourself down. Let me get you some tea. Shall I draw you a bath?

'Yes please, Molly.' She knew better than to embarrass the girl by inviting her to call her _Lyra_. Five minutes later she was lying in a steaming fragrant bath, balancing a cup of Darjeeling on the edge. 'Hold that steady, Pan.'

'Yes, my lady.'

'Careful, daemon!'

'Yes, my… Lyra.'

Lyra thought for a while. 'Pan?'

'Yes'

'I want to get in touch with Will. He might be able to help us.'

'No, Lyra. We mustn't do that. Apart from anything else, I don't think he can do very much for us.'

'Hell's teeth! Don't you think I know that!' It had been a difficult day – one of the hardest, because of its strangeness, that Lyra had ever faced.

'Sorry, Pan.'

Silence.

'He might know something. Doctors sit on committees, don't they? Isn't that just like this Council? Pan, I don't know what to do or what to say. I'm terrified I'm going to put my foot in it again, like I did this afternoon. They must all think I'm half-witted, or a yokel.'

'Will's no better at meetings and committees than you are. In fact, he's probably worse. He a very private, solitary man, Lyra. And…'

'We promised.'

Silence.

'I never knew, Pan. I never knew there could be this kind of danger. We've fought Spectres and worse. We were in the War in Heaven, though we hardly knew what we were doing at the time. But the danger was nearly always obvious – the Abyss, or the harpies, or meeting our Death. This is… _secret_ danger. I can't tell where it's coming from. I can't see – it's as if I had the wrong sort of vision. The danger's all around us…'

'In a word or a half-hidden gesture…'

'And I can only feel it. It's like being a rabbit caught in a trap and waiting for the huntsman to come and shoot me.

'It's the Church. They always strike in the dark. In silence. In secret.

'The danger comes from the Church.'

Molly bustled in, carrying a large towel over her arm. 'Ready to get dressed for dinner, my lady?'

'Not tonight, Molly. I'm too tired. Can I have a tray sent up here?'

'Not going to dinner with the King?' Molly was horrified.

'No. I've done enough damage for one day. I don't want to risk doing any more.' Lyra did not go into details.

'He'll be most offended, my lady.'

'I can't help that. Please let his majesty know that Professor Belacqua sends her deepest apologies, but she is indisposed. And Molly…'

'My lady?'

'Not too much wine tonight, please. I need to keep a clear head for tomorrow.'

The place to the right of the king had been left empty by Lyra's absence, so Alfred was compelled to talk to his wife over dinner. Not that he minded, although he wondered whether dear Alexandra hadn't warned Professor Belacqua off. The queen knew about her husband's affairs and tolerated them, as a monarch's consort must. She did not have to like them, however.

Later he had talked to Eleanor about Lyra's _faux pas_. The panther-daemon lashed her tail about her flanks. 'You were harder on her than you needed to be, Alfred. She's well out of her depth here. I don't suppose she's been involved in anything more political than an argument over the College catering before.'

'Don't you patronise her!'

'And don't you demand more from her than she can reasonably be expected to give. And Alfred…'

'Yes, my dear?'

'Keep your hands off her. I know what you're like with damsels in distress. They appeal to your noble instincts.'

'Stars above! This is like being married twice over!'

The second morning session began. Lyra was just starting to be able to determine the viewpoints of the various participants. Lord Dellar and Sir Kenneth Wilkins were broadly in favour of reform. The bishop and Sir Patrick McCormack were against any change to the status quo. The king was clearly looking for a way to sweep the Church out of power in the most effective manner, so long as the Empire's stability was not affected. Lyra was with the king. As for the others, it was hard to tell. Mister Shire spoke even less than her, and then in a voice so quiet that it was almost unintelligible.

The balance of argument swayed to and fro. A proposal would seem to be generally supported, and then a raft of practical or religious objections would appear to counter it. The king's expression grew darker and darker as the morning passed by. It was becoming clear that there would be no simple or quick solution to the problems raised by the entanglement of Church and State. Finally, half-way through the afternoon, the king lost his patience.

'Madam Professor, gentlemen! We seem to be making very little progress.

'Let us try to cut through to the heart of the problem. It seems to me that we are still debating the necessity of disestablishment, when we should be working out the best means of accomplishing it. I must assure you that, to my mind, the answer is clear. We _must_ separate the interests of Church and State. The government must be set free to manage the affairs of the nation, and the Church must be set free to look after our spiritual needs. At present we are confused, because each of us is trying to do two jobs at once. "A man cannot serve two masters", can he Bishop?'

'So our Saviour said, sire.'

'And He told us to give to God that which is God's, and to the King that which is the King's?'

'Quite correct, sire.'

'So. But let us not take my word for this. We have among us a person with a direct connection to the Oracle of Truth. Madam Professor, do you have your alethiometer with you today?'

'Yes sire.' Lyra hid her surprise well, the king noted.

'And do you have the Books of Reading with you?'

'They are in my rooms, sire. However, if the question you wish to ask is a straightforward one, I will not need to consult them.'

__

Such arrogance! the bishop thought. He looked towards his chaplain and nodded. They had anticipated that something like this might happen.

Lyra took out the alethiometer and laid it on the table before her. It glittered golden in the afternoon sunlight.

'What is the question, sire?'

'It is very simple, requiring an answer of _ yes_ or _no_.

'Ask the oracle this: must Church and State become two separate entities?'

'That is indeed a simple question, sire. I do not think that it will take me very long to divine the answer.'

Lyra set the three pointers of the instrument carefully, not rushing. She had learned that to try to force the alethiometer to work at an unnatural pace was counter-productive. When the pointers were positioned appropriately she concentrated her mind on the question and prepared to record the motion of the needle as it spun and whirled around the dial. The needle seemed a little sluggish and unwilling to begin moving, so she checked that all the pointers were clearly placed and refocused her mind on the question.

The needle twitched twice, and then stopped dead. Lyra shook the instrument gently, in case the bearings were stuck. The needle moved a little and stopped again. She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks.

'I… I'm sorry. The alethiometer is not responding. I don't understand it. This has not happened to me since…'

'Shush,' said Pantalaimon.

Lyra looked up. All the men were staring at her. She forced herself to speak, but her voice came out tiny and strangulated.

'It isn't working. I can't do it. I can't do it.'

The king spoke. 'Madam Professor, would you like to take a rest and try again?'

'No sire. I'm sorry, that won't work. It doesn't work any more. I can't… I can't… Would you excuse me please?'

With as much dignity as she could manage, Lyra got to her feet and left the Star Chamber. As she rose she caught a glimpse of the Bishop of Caester's face. It was smiling in triumph. A footman opened the door for her and she heard the cleric's voice as she entered the passageway beyond.

'It would seem, sire, that we cannot rely upon this _pagan_ wisdom any more. Might I suggest that this would be a good time for all of us assembled here to kneel and pray to the Lord God for guidance? _Potentas ex Authorita_, gentlemen. Power comes from the Authority. Let us never forget that.'

The heavy oak door shut behind her with a muffled thud. All that Lyra could do now was mourn. She had lost the grace of the alethiometer for a second, final time and there was nothing else left to her.


	11. The Gyptian

**__**

The Gyptian 

'Excellent!'

'Yes, today's progress has indeed been very satisfactory. I trust you will keep our masters in Genève informed of our progress.'

'A message to that effect has already been dispatched, Bishop.'

'Good. Now all that is left is to deal with the king. We must induce a change of mind in him. I wonder; should we send the woman to him? She can be very persuasive, I believe.'

'Yes, let's do that.'

Molly refused to pack Lyra's things or call for a hansom. 'My lady, you're in no fit state to leave now. Have a good night's sleep…'

'I don't think I will…'

'Have a good night's sleep. Things will look better in the morning. I'll get you some tea and a nice piece of carrot-cake. You sit there by the fire.'

Lyra did as she was told. The treacherous alethiometer lay disregarded on the floor beside her chair.

'Good God! You're Lyra's sister!' It was obvious to him immediately.

Elizabeth Boreal continued letting down her hair. She did it slowly, deliberately, knowing how much it aroused Alfred's senses.

'Alan said there was a family connection!'

'Alan was right.' Elizabeth was wearing only her chemise. She stood next to Alfred, her hair hanging loosely around her shoulders, glinting golden in the firelight. 'Do wish she was here now?' She pressed herself close to the king and looked up into his eyes.

'I could be her now, if you'd like me to. I can be anyone – you know that. Tell me Alfred, would you like me to be Lyra tonight?'

There was a knock on the door.

'Come in,' Lyra called. That was odd. Molly didn't usually knock.

'Madam Professor? Can we come in?'

It was Mister Shire, the gyptian. He was almost the last person Lyra wanted to see.

'Molly?'

'She knows we're here.' Mister Shire's magpie-daemon raised her wings above her head. She perched on the back of a mahogany chair.

'You'd better sit down.'

'Thank you.'

'Get out! Get out of here!'

'What's wrong? Don't I please you, sire?'

'Just go! Now!'

Elizabeth put out her arm and her serpent-daemon Parander uncoiled himself from Eleanor's neck and slithered up to her shoulders. Something had gone very badly astray, but what? Pausing only to collect her things from the bedroom floor, she went into the bathroom and dressed herself. When she came back the king was still lying in bed, staring fixedly at the ceiling.

'Goodnight, Alfred.'

'Goodnight, Lizzie.'

'Shall I come and see you again?'

'No. Yes. Oh, I don't know. Not for a while. Go away now.'

__

Shall I be Lyra, she had said. As if she were a common tart, and he a mark. A fool. A dupe. There was no doubt that Elizabeth was the beautiful sister, and Lyra the plain one. But…

One face hovered in front of his in the semi-darkness. It was a hurt face; a face that knew, and had known, much pain. Oh, he realised that he would not be able to give Lizzie up. She knew him far too well for that.

'Told you,' said Eleanor. 'Damsels in distress, and all that.'

'All right. Yes. There's something else. Why did Lizzie come here _tonight_, rather than any other night? Why did she want to talk about the Council? How did she know about it?'

'Sir Patrick is a good Boreal man.'

'I don't think McCormack's got anything to do with this. Something nasty and devious is going on, Eleanor, and I've been too busy to see it.'

'First, is you the Lyra that was at Bolvangar?'

Lyra had not heard that word for many years. She hid her surprise as best she could. 'Yes. I was at Bolvangar. Why, were you there too? You can't have been. You're too old, aren't you; your daemon would have settled…'

'Her name's Sarastus. Yes, she was settled. Does the name Stan Tulliver mean anything to you?'

'No. I don't remember. Was he at Bolvangar? With Tony… Tony Makarios?'

'Yes he was.'

'Was he…?'

'No. He was left whole. No thanks to you, or your bitch mother.'

__

Oh. How did he find out Mrs Coulter was my mother?

'I'm sorry.'

'Sorry for what? Sorry for your mother? She's not your fault.'

'She died, you know.'

'We knows. She fell into a pit of darkness. We saw it.'

'You saw my mother die? How?'

'We _saw_ it. We asks questions. We sees things.'

'Yes. I think you do, Mister Shire. Did you know Farder Coram?'

'Of course we did.'

A pause.

'Why do you hate my mother so?'

Mister Shire stared at Lyra. 'You doesn't know? You is a Professor at high-and-mighty silver-spoon Jordan College and you doesn't know why I hates the Gobblers and that mother of yours?'

'Did you lose someone to them? Was it a brother or a sister?'

'She was a common tart! She wasn't even mine – only once!'

'Who was?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'Yes it does.'

'It doesn't matter!'

Lyra leaned forward. 'Mister Shire. It's Arthur, isn't it? Please tell me about it. Tell me why you hate me so much.'

Arthur took off his cloth cap and held it in front of him, resting on his knees. 'Her name… her name was Maggie…'

'What?'

'I tell you my lord bishop, there was something different about him.'

'What difference would that make to you? They tell me that you are very… skilful.'

'It's Lyra. She's got to him in some way. It was as if she had somehow come between us.'

'Lady Boreal, you are telling me that you have not succeeded with the king. That you have not persuaded him to abandon his ridiculous schemes.'

'There will be another opportunity, I am sure.'

'We cannot wait for another opportunity! Once it becomes generally known that the king wishes to cleave Holy Church and State apart, the idea will spread among the populace like a plague. We will never be rid of it. We must act, and act now.'

'Dispose of the Belacqua woman, you mean?'

'Once that would have been enough, Fra Pavel. But we have failed in that.'

'That was not my fault.'

'Nobody says that it is. You have done well. But the stakes are higher now and the costs of failure are much greater. We must take correspondingly drastic action.'

'You mean…?'

'Nothing that need concern you, king's whore. Get away with you.'

'So we both lost somebody in the War.'

'It looks like it.'

'Your Maggie, my Will.'

'Maggie's dead, though.'

'And it was my mother who killed her.'

'Her daemon, you mean.'

'Sometimes I wish Will were dead, too.'

They were quiet for a while. The fire patterned the walls of the room with orange light.

'Lyra, would you do something for us?'

'What is it, Arthur?'

'Would you try the alethiometer again?'

'It doesn't work for me any more. You saw.'

'I saw more than you know. Try it again. Try it on something easy. Try it now.'

Elizabeth Boreal did not attempt to return to the king's bedchamber. She knew that way would be barred to her now. Instead, she made her way down unfamiliar passages to the servant's quarters and there demanded to be told the whereabouts of Lady Belacqua's apartments.

'It worked!' Lyra's eyes glittered in the lamplight.

'We thought it would.'

'How did you know?'

'The alethiometer is powered by Dust, you said.'

'Yes.'

'And you knows that we can see Dust. Control its flow too.'

'Yes, you told me.'

'When you was reading it – or trying to read it – this afternoon I saw the Dust that made it work. We saw other Dust too.'

'What do you mean?'

'We saw two Dust-streams. One flowing towards you, the other towards the bishop's chaplain, that Fra Pavel. Lyra, what happens if there are two alethiometers in the same room?'

'Two alethiometers? I don't know – I've never seen two alethiometers together. They're very rare.'

'Not so rare that that Church doesn't have one as well as you. Lyra, Fra Pavel is an alethiometrist too, but he's been keeping it secret.'

'Fra Pavel? But… wait… Did you see him using it?'

'Who knows what was going on under his habit?'

'Do you mean he was reading his alethiometer at the same time as I was reading mine?'

'Yes, we does.'

'That wouldn't matter. I'm sure it wouldn't matter. Unless… Unless…'

'Yes?'

'Unless he was asking his instrument the same question as I was asking mine, but a little before me. The oracle – it never answers the same question twice!'

'And Fra Pavel had got there first.'

'Yes. I was taking my time. I was being careful.'

'Too careful, perhaps.'

'This changes things, Arthur.'

'Not as much as you might think. Nobody in Council will believe in your ability to read the alethiometer any more.'

'I'll believe in it, though. That's what really matters to me.'

'It'll be best if the Church doesn't find out what we know.'

'I agree. I wonder what they'll do now.'

'We may not have to wait very long to find out. What's all that banging and hammering outside?'

The door to the corridor burst open and a wild breathless figure crashed into the room. Arthur stood up, ready to defend Lyra from an attacker, but Lyra sat unmoving in her chair.

'Elizabeth! You! Arthur, can you fetch Molly, please?'

'Lyra! Wait, don't call anyone! This is urgent!'

'I'm sure it is. Arthur, meet Lady Elizabeth Boreal. She's my half-sister and a very, very important person indeed. She's much too important to be allowed to go dashing up and down the corridors of the Palace of Westminster in such a state. What's happened, sister mine? Has one of your boyfriends thrown you out again?' A frost congealed around Lyra's words.

'Lyra, stop it! Please stop it! Listen to me! You've got to get help! It's the Church! They're going to kill the king!'

**__**

Author's Note

I realise that I've skimmed over, in my usual elliptical manner, some things in this chapter that you might have expected me to go into more detail about; specifically what happened to Arthur Shire at Bolvangar. I think I've said here all that actually needs to be said in this story. If you want to find out more, and perhaps get a better fix on why Arthur was predisposed to dislike Lyra, you can read _The Reliquary_ and _Arthur and Maggie_ at Jopari's site www.geocities.com/joparistories.


	12. The King

****

The King

The Dean of Jordan College had been a great Roman scholar in his younger days and even though he was an old man now his skill in the composition of Latin prose had not deserted him. He had decided that he would pen this, the most important letter he would ever write, in the Roman tongue, as befitted one scholar writing to another, and he had thought that the task would be a simple one. Yet the words would not come. He did not know how to express his distress adequately in English, let alone Latin.

'Slow down, Elizabeth. You're talking very little sense.'

Molly brought a glass of water. Lady Boreal took it from her and sipped at it.

'Now, Lady Boreal. Why does you think the Church wants to assassinate the king?'

'I… I overheard them talking in the chapel. They were saying that they were going to find a condemned man in the Scrubs and offer him a reprieve if he'd murder Alfred. You've got to warn him!'

Lyra slapped her sister hard across the cheek. 'Don't lie to me! Especially not to me! Don't you think I can tell when you're lying?'

('It's when her lips move,' muttered Pantalaimon.)

'It takes one to know one, wouldn't you say, Mister Shire? My sister is a born liar, didn't you know? What lies has she been telling _you_?'

'You is the spitting image of your mother, my lady.'

'I shall take that as a compliment. Thank you.' Arthur turned his face away in disgust. 'May we leave, Madam Professor? Sal and me is finding the atmosphere in here somewhat oppressive.'

'Please stay, Arthur. We need your help.'

'But – this woman! When we looks at her all we sees is that murderous bitch who killed my Maggie!

'Oh, no. We is sorry, Lyra. We does not mean to…'

'That's all right, Arthur. I know. I think my mother loved me, in her own way. I sometimes wonder if she didn't die for me.'

Lizzie: 'Or your precious Will Parry. He really fancied her, you know. Why do you think he slept with me?'

'Liar!'

'No, Lyra. I think you'll find I'm not lying. Why don't you ask your magic box there? It'll tell you the truth, perhaps, if you've the guts to face it.'

Arthur: 'He didn't sleep with you because you looked like Mrs Coulter. He slept with you because… because you looked like Lyra.'

Elizabeth smiled at her sister. 'What a clever little man this is. You know, I wasn't feeling very well at the time. I certainly wasn't looking my best. Really rather plain, in fact. Well, darling sister, that just about sums up the difference between you and me, doesn't it?'

Arthur took Lyra into his arms. She was crying and shaking with rage. 'Lyra, listen to me. Don't pay any attention to her.' He turned to Elizabeth. 'Say what you've got to say, my lady, and then get out. When are they going to kill the king?' He looked directly into Elizabeth's eyes, piercing her's defences. Suddenly she was helpless. A golden thread linked the humble gyptian and the great lady. The Dust-stream demanded that she speak nothing but the truth. It _was_ truth.

Later, when Elizabeth had gone, flushed and distraught by the way in which her soul had been plumbed by Arthur's gaze, Lyra asked him how he had known about her sister and Will Parry.

'Does you think your alethiometer is the only way to the truth? No, Lyra, there is many paths you or we can take.'

'So it is true that they slept together?'

'Yes, it is. But sleeping's all that happened, we is certain of that. And Elizabeth did look a lot like you in those days, we is sure. Don't take it to heart, what she said. She wouldn't have said it if she hadn't been so jealous of you. Would she, Sal?'

'We were going to be such good friends, Lizzie and I…' Arthur held Lyra and gently stroked her hair.

'Molly!'

'Sir?'

'Tea for us all, please, including you. We've got to think about how we're going to save the king's life.'

Molly returned with a laden tray.

'Sit down, Molly. We're going to need your help too. You know the Palace better than either of us.

'Now go on, Arthur.' The gyptian took a noisy slurp at his cup of tea.

'The way we sees it, Lyra, your sister has been the king's mistress for a year or more. We thinks that she's been working with the Church. We noticed that Sir Patrick was taking the Church's side in the Council. We also suspects that the Church, through Lady Boreal and maybe in other ways as well, has known for some time about what the king has been planning to do.'

'Do you think Lizzie was with him tonight?'

'We is sure of it. Something didn't go as they meant it to. We thinks that Elizabeth was supposed to pillow-talk the king into changing his mind, but she must have said or done something wrong. That's why she was so upset when she got here. She told the bishop what had happened, so as he had failed to dispose of you…'

'What?'

'And even your problem with the alethiometer hadn't shaken his view that the Church must be removed from power…'

'They tried to kill me?'

'Not for the first time, was it?'

Lyra slowly shook her head.

'No airships were meant to be aloft in that storm. They was all grounded. Didn't you know? That Captain Hollins of yours – he must be an incredible aëronaut. Tell the king about it when you sees him. It will help to persuade him.'

'I should tell the king?'

'Yes. He'll listen to you. You must tell the king that the Church have decided that the only way to kill the idea of disestablishment is to kill him. Molly, this is where you come in. How do we get to the king's quarters?'

'They're on the top floor, sir, about fifty yards west of here.'

'Can we get there without being seen?'

'Not if you take the main corridor and the Grand Stair no, my lady.'

'How does the king's servants get to his apartments? There must be separate passages for the staff. They wouldn't be allowed to go up and down the public corridors.'

'Yes sir. We use the back stair.'

'So you could get to the king's room without being noticed. Nobody notices the servants, do they?'

'No sir. It's not too late in the evening yet for us to be about in the passageways. Do you want _me_ to go and warn the king, sir? Why would he listen to me? I'm only a maid.'

'Not you, Molly. But you can help.'

Lyra felt more than a little ridiculous, and not nearly as well disguised as she had hoped. Molly was a tall girl, and buxom too, and her second-best uniform was a baggy fit on Lyra's spare frame. 'Don't worry, my lady,' Molly had said. 'Nobody's looking at either of us.' Lyra tucked her hair into her borrowed mob-cap and hoped that Molly was right.

They walked together down narrow passages, floored with linoleum or threadbare carpet. There was a steep spiral staircase to climb. It took them past several floors until it came to a dead end. A spring-hinged door led to another cream-painted corridor, with a door at its end.

'The King's Lobby is past that door. The entrance to the Royal Apartments is on the other side.'

'Is it guarded?'

'Yes, there's two Yeomen Guards there. Don't worry about them.' They walked to the end of the passageway and opened the door.

The contrast between the spartan area they had just left and the luxurious room they entered nearly took Lyra's breath away. The walls were covered with dark oak panelling, the floor with a thick blue and crimson carpet. The ceiling was of vaulted elmwood, with brightly painted bosses, depicting the emblems of the Royal Houses of Brytain. Soft anbaric lighting cast a gentle glow over all. Outside the massively porticoed double doors which led to the king's private apartments stood two guards wearing scarlet and gold uniforms of an antique design. They carried halberds, which they crossed to bar the way as Lyra and Molly approached.

'Halt. Who approaches?'

'Eric Little, you know perfectly well who I am.' The younger of the two guards shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. 'You get yourself in there and tell his majesty's equerry that I've got Lady Lyra Belacqua with me and she wishes to see the king on a matter of urgent business.'

Alfred sat by the fireside in his bedroom. He really ought to be getting ready for bed, he knew. He was tired, and the Council would resume first thing tomorrow. He would need to give his full attention to it. Somehow, following Professor Belacqua's disastrous attempt at reading the alethiometer, he had lost control of the meeting. It had passed to the Church; to the Bishop of Caester and that sinister little chaplain of his. Alfred knew that he had to regain control tomorrow and force the Councillors to follow his agenda, not the Church's. But how? When the professor had left the Star Chamber and the bishop had started that absurd prayer meeting it was as if all the progress that they had made in the previous day and a half had been thrown away.

As for Elizabeth's suggestion… Even while he had had his arms around her, and his daemon Eleanor had been engaged with her Parander, he had felt a sudden revulsion towards her. He knew that she was a scheming woman, intent on her own advancement, yet he could not help loving her all the same. They were alike in so many ways – ready to disregard convention and common ideas of propriety. So why did he feel as if she had gone too far this time? What was it about the idea of Lizzie impersonating Lyra in his bed that had upset him so?

Alfred's thoughts were disturbed by a knock on the door. It was his equerry Alan, probably bringing him a night-cap. 'Pardon me sire, but there is a visitor waiting for you outside.'

'A visitor? At this time of night?'

'There are two persons, both dressed as Palace servants. One is known to the guards; she is Molly Pritchard, a ladies' maid. The other claims to be Professor Lyra Belacqua.'

Lyra? Here? Now? What the hell's going on?

'Her daemon?'

'Her daemon is in the form of a small mammal, like a stoat or an otter, but with red-gold fur. I do believe that she really is the Lady Belacqua, sire. I caught sight of her in the Amber Hall the night before last.'

'Is she armed?'

'I do not think so, sire. Should I have her searched?'

'No. No, don't do that. Show the professor into my salon. I shall join her in a moment. You stay outside on guard. I'm uneasy about this – there are plots and counterplots here and I don't know enough about what's happening.'

'Yes sire.' Alan left the room, closely followed by his Irish wolfhound-formed daemon. Alfred heard the outer doors open and Alan admitting his unexpected visitor. He put on a quilted green satin dressing-gown and, leaving the bedroom, crossed the hallway to his private salon.

It certainly was Professor Belacqua. She was sitting on the edge of a chair, leaning forward anxiously and wearing a maid's uniform which was at least two sizes too big for her. It emphasised her childlike vulnerability and he felt a sudden urge to protect her, to wrap her in his arms, press her cheek close to his chest and shield her from danger.

('Careful,' said Eleanor. 'That's one of your weaknesses.')

Lyra stood up when he entered. 'Sire, is it safe in here? Can we be overheard?'

What a funny question!

'We are as safe as anywhere in the realm of Brytain, Professor.'

'That's what I'm afraid of, sire. Can we go to your bedchamber?'

'Madam, you take me by surprise!'

'Please sire, now!' Lyra leapt to her feet, took the king's arm and practically pulled him out of the room. 'Is this it?' She pointed to the bedroom door.

Alfred, who had not been the object of such enthusiastic attention from a lady for more years than he would have liked to admit, merely nodded. The professor tugged urgently at him – 'Quickly, sire!' – and they tumbled into the bedroom.

'The bed, sire!' Lyra crossed the room, still leading the king by the hand, and climbed up onto the large, richly decorated four-poster bed which was the main feature of the room. Alfred joined her, together with Eleanor and Pantalaimon. Much to his surprise, Lyra untied the curtains and drew them all around the bed so that they were enclosed in a warm dark velvet cave. _So she's shy after all! That's nice._ He reached across to her, feeling in the shadows for the fastenings of her blouse. If the lady was in such intemperate haste it would be most ungentlemanly of him to keep her waiting…

She slapped his hand away. 'Not now, sire!' Eleanor yelped – Pantalaimon had bitten her in the left foreleg.

'What!'

'Your majesty must start thinking with his head!' Lyra's voice was low and intense in the muffled darkness. 'We are in the most serious danger and if you don't listen carefully to me now we shall both be dead – murdered – within the hour!'


	13. The Passage

**__**

The Passage

Molly had time to exchange only a few words of banter with her friend Eric at the door to the king's apartments before she returned to Lyra's rooms. She was not there when he was unexpectedly relieved of his post by a recent-recruited member of the guardroom, nor was she a witness when his throat was cut in an alcove nearby and his body deposited in an empty box-room for later disposal. If she had seen those particular bloody events, there is no doubt that she would not have been allowed to live any further herself and her story would not have turned out in the way that it did. It was especially fortunate that Alan, acting on a impulse whose source he could not readily identify but which we may as well call _instinct_, decided that it would be better if he were to lock and bar from the inside the doors which were now, unbeknownst to him, guarded by loyal and steadfast agents of the Church.

These events – these stealthy knifings and silent garrottings – were duplicated in corridors, halls and private rooms all along the length, the breadth and the not inconsiderable height of Palace of Westminster. The Church had laid its plans well in advance and positioned its servants many years before in anticipation of this day and the special opportunities that it would present. A robed and cowled figure entered the lobby of the king's apartments and made a prearranged signal to the guards. It was time to take drastic action.

Lyra had the king's whole attention now. 'Elizabeth told us everything she knew. She couldn't help it – not when Mister Shire had her in his gaze.'

'I still don't understand why she came to your room. Why didn't she just leave the Palace altogether?' They were both speaking _sotto voce_, sitting on the bed, their heads close together.

'There may be two answers to that, sire. One is that she may have realised that she already knew too much about the plot, and that the Church would try to do away with her, especially if she tried to escape from the Palace. The other one is that I think she's quite fond of you – as much as a woman like her can be fond of anyone beyond herself, that is – and she thought I might be able to help you. Perhaps I'm the only person she knows she can trust.'

'Even though she hates you so much?'

'It's _because_ she hates me. She knows where we stand. Now listen, sire, we either have to get you out of this place somehow, or summon help.'

'I'll send Alan to the guardroom.'

'Do you trust him? Is he loyal?'

'Yes – we were at school together.'

'Hmmm… That'll have to do, I suppose. Don't call for him. I'll fetch him myself.' Lyra slipped through the bed-curtains and tiptoed across the floor to the door. She opened it slowly, only to collide with the equerry who was approaching softly from the other side. One look at his face told her that it was far too late for them to think of calling for help.

Arthur and Molly abandoned Lyra's room. They did not dare to return to their own chamber. It was becoming increasingly likely that the Church would do all it could to wipe out all its enemies, and that included anyone who had spoken out in Council in support of the king's reforms. They proceeded by poorly-lit corridors and down cramped staircases to the north-east servants' kitchen in the upper basement_. If only we knew what was happening in the king's rooms_, thought Arthur as he sat next to Molly on a deal bench at the long oak table which furnished the servants' hall, and drank a mug of stewed kaffee while Sal pecked at a loaf of stale black bread.

_There must be something more we can do to help. But what? Think, damn you. Think!_

Alan opened the windows of the king's salon and looked out. _That was a bad idea!_ It was at least a two hundred foot drop from the windowsill to the roadway below. A ledge no more than nine inches wide ran from the bottom of the window and along the side of the building to the far corners. He turned away from the window. An ominous thumping was coming from the lobby. They were trying to force the outer doors. Soon more men would arrive, with a battering ram perhaps, and the doors would give way.

'Good man! Leave the window slightly open. That should keep them busy for a while. Come on now.' Alfred led Lyra and Alan back into his bedroom.

'Now then.' He leaned against the panelling to the left of the head of the bed. There was a slight click and the panel moved back a quarter of an inch. It slid to the left, revealing a tarnished brass handle. A quarter-turn to the left, and a whole section of panelling hinged back into the wall. A dark brick tunnel lay beyond it.

'You go first, Lyra, then Alan. I'll go last – I know how to reset the mechanism.'

'By your leave, sire. I prefer to remain here.'

'What! Don't be ridiculous, man. How long do you think you'll last? They'll be through the doors in another minute or two.'

'I will go out on the ledge and make sounds. They will be more likely to believe that you and Lady Belacqua have gone out that way if there are footprints on the windowsill and people outside.'

'No!'

'I insist, sire.'

'I think he means it.'

Alfred sighed. 'Go on. And Alan…'

'Sire?'

'Good luck. I won't forget this.'

'Thank you, sire.'

Alan left them. Eleanor and Pantalaimon followed Lyra and the king into the darkness. Alfred pushed the swinging panel back into place and engaged a wooden latch. _A secret passage!_ thought Lyra. At any other time she would have found such an idea quite impossibly exciting and romantic. Now it was nothing more than dirt and darkness and clammy bricks, spiders' webs and the musty smell of bats. 'Where does this come out?' she asked.

Alfred's voice was hollow in the darkness. 'On the parapet, by the north-west tower. We can reach the roof from there or go on up to the top of the tower.'

'Only up? We can't go down or leave the Palace?'

'No. It probably wouldn't help us if we could. The whole place must be surrounded by Church forces by now.'

'So what do we do then?

'I'm not sure. It'll be enough, I think, if we can simply stay alive for just a little bit longer. Careful, now. There's a steep stairway going up. Take my hand.' They linked hands in the fusty gloom and scrambled, like children exploring an old forbidden house, up the dank and slippery stairs.

The Bishop of Caester walked through the doors which hung, battered and splintered, loosely on their hinges. A uniformed guard approached him. 'My Lord Bishop, we have searched the king's rooms. He is not here, but the outer window is slightly ajar. I believe that it is possible that he and his doxy have made their escape that way. There are recent marks on the sill.'

'And the equerry? Where is he?'

'There is no sign of him either, my lord.' The bishop walked across to the window and threw it wide open. He listened intently. Just audible over the night-sounds of London was a slight scuffling, and perhaps a soft voice or two.

'Edgehill?'

'My lord?' The guard stepped forward. The bishop lifted his crosier and struck the side of the man's steel-helmeted head hard with its silver-plated hooked end. 'Do not let me hear you speak of the king's or his companions again in such a manner. You must learn to show a proper respect for your betters.'

The guard put his hand up to his left cheek, which was beginning to bleed profusely. 'Yes, my lord.'

'Take two men with you onto the ledge. Bring back whoever you find there.'

Corporal Edgehill blenched. 'Out there, my lord?'

'Yes, out there. We must all follow orders, must we not? Are you not a loyal Church man?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Then go!'

__

This complicates matters. The bishop had hoped to find the king and his woman, and preferably the equerry too, in the rooms. Two or three dead bodies in the king's bed would have told a story that would have suited the Church's purposes very well – a story of an unworthy king and his ungovernable lusts, of sin and death, and of the terrible everlasting death that awaits the unrepentant sinner. He turned to his chaplain. 'Pavel, you have your instrument with you, do you not?' He did not need to name it.

'Bishop, I do.'

'The king and his mistress may be out on that ledge, or they may not be. I would rather know for sure where they are and what they are doing. I would like you to you use the device to ascertain exactly where the King of Brytain, his harlot and his servant are at this present time, if you please.'

'This may take some time.'

'Then hurry, fool! The longer we delay, the greater the chance that the king will elude us.'

'Sire?' Lyra and the king were crouching in the tunnel, by an iron door.

'Professor?'

'I've had an idea. You know I said that that the bishop's chaplain has an alethiometer? And that he had used it to confuse my own reading?'

'Yes.'

'If the bishop is in your rooms now he may tell his chaplain to find out where we are, using the oracle. I could ask my alethiometer that question first, and pre-empt him.'

'Would that work, do you think?'

'If the two alethiometers were close enough in space and time, yes it would.'

The king thought. 'No, Lyra. We daren't. If the chaplain tries to make a reading and it fails he'll know that we are nearby.'

'But if we don't obstruct his reading he'll find out precisely where we are.'

'Hmmm. How quickly could you get an answer if you were reading the alethiometer?'

'In about five minutes or so. Maybe less.'

'The we must assume that he will be equally as quick as you, even if it is not so in reality. How often can you ask the same question, if the answer if likely to be different each time?'

'That depends upon the _degree_ of difference, sire.'

'We have a serious problem, then. If we keep still, Fra Pavel will track us down. If you jam his readings he will know that we are not far away from him and the Church will be able to find us by means of a simple physical search. But if we move about, the chaplain will be able to ask his alethiometer repeatedly where we are and the Church will follow us wherever we go.' Alfred considered for a moment.

'We move. Pavel may be slower than you, and Alan will create a diversion for us. We must move, and keep moving. If we stay in any one place for more than ten minutes, we're doomed!'


	14. The Tower

**__**

The Tower

There was a scream from outside the window. It trailed away into the night, terminating in a distant thump as a body hit the ground far below. _That was a man's voice_, thought the bishop. And: 'Hurry, man! They are getting away!' to Fra Pavel. The chaplain was huddled over his instrument in a corner of the king's salon. He looked up, 'Soon, my lord bishop._' Now, where was I?_

A guard appeared at the door to the servants' hall. He banged the haft of his halberd against the tiled floor. Everyone looked up. 'Molly Pritchard. Which one of you is Molly Pritchard?'

'She's not here, sir. She's gone home to her sister's.'

'She was in the Palace only half an hour ago. Are you sure she's gone home?'

'Oh yes, sir. There was a message – her sister's been taken ill. She's ever so poorly, sir.'

'Where does this sister of hers live, wench?'

'Barnet, sir. Miles away. She'll have gone down to the Embankment and taken the 'thonic.'

'Are you sure?'

'Oh yes, sir. I saw her go myself.'

'And you are?'

'Delia Finchley. Tween-stairs maid. At your service, sir.'

The man left, annoyed and disbelieving. Molly leaned against Arthur's shoulder. 'Oh God, sir. I told a lie!'

'If that's the only lie you ever has to tell, you're luckier than we is. Come on Molly, we'd better go. Finchley is much too close to Barnet. He'll catch on in a minute and then he'll be back with his mates.'

'Oh sir, I never realised! Barnet, Finchley; they're both the names of London boroughs, aren't they?'

'Don't worry about it, Molly. You did well. Now come on! I've got an idea at last.'

Alan stood on the ledge with his back to the wall, fifty yards from the king's window. He was shaking with horror, feeling again the thud as his foot had made contact with the guard's knee, hearing again the ghastly sound he had made as he fell and the softer, yet hardly less horrible, sound that had ended his cry of despair.

__

I have killed a man. 'You had to. It was him or us,' his daemon said.

'I still feel like a murderer.'

'Look out. There's another of them coming.'

King Alfred closed the iron door behind them. 'The lock is on the inside, of course. Here, pass me that piece of wood.' There was a stack nearby, probably left behind by some workmen who had been repairing the roof. The king wedged it across the door. 'That'll hold it for a while.'

The roof of the Palace of Westminster stretched out before Lyra and Alfred. It was almost flat, sloping up to a gentle ridge along the spine of the building and dotted with skylights at regular intervals. The surface was of lead, gleaming dully in the moonlight. There wasn't enough cover to hide a mouse, let alone two adult humans and their daemons. The roof's area was vast – if it had not been for the slope and the obstructions it would have been possible to play four simultaneous football matches there, with plenty of room left over for the spectators.

'We can't stay here. That moon – it's like an acetylene searchlight. They'll pick us off easily.'

'Can't we get down anywhere? This feels like a trap, sire.'

__

It certainly does. 'We'll have to go back. Back to the tower.' Behind them the great bulk of the north-west tower loomed into the sky. There were no windows on any side of the tower for at least forty feet from the level of the roof of the main part of the Palace. The Star Chamber, whose mullioned windows looked out in all directions, was at the top of the tower, below a high conical roof.

'Wait, sire.' Lyra held out her hands and Pantalaimon jumped into them. 'There _is_ something else we can do.'

Arthur pushed Molly behind him. He looked sideways into the stairwell. _All clear_. 'Down here, Molly.'

They ran down the staircase and pushed open the heavy oak door at the bottom. Before them stood a forest of stone columns, standing in a lake of dark water and illuminated by flaring naphtha lamps. They had reached the lowest basement of the Palace of Westminster.

A rowing boat was moored by the doorway. 'Ah!' said Arthur. 'This is more like it!'

'The last person I met who could do that…'

'Was called Serafina Pekkala. I know, sire. She told me.'

'There's more to you, Professor Belacqua, than meets the eye.'

'I don't suppose it's in my dossier, either.'

'You know about that?'

'I guessed. I'm learning.'

'You're right, it's not. Where is Pantalaimon going?'

'It's best if you don't know. Sorry, sire.'

'Call me Alfred, please.'

'If you don't know what he's doing or where he's going you can't tell anyone, can you Alfred?'

'No. I suppose you're right.'

'There's another thing – this is really going to confuse Fra Pavel!'

Monsignor Geoffrey Jones, Bishop of Caester, finally lost his patience. 'Pavel! What in the name of the Lord God, our Saviour Jesus Christ, the Holy Magdelena and the Numinous Spirit are you up to?'

The chaplain looked up to his master with reddened, strained eyes. 'My lord bishop, this is not easy. I am getting many answers to my question.'

'The oracle is working after a fashion, then. What answers are you getting?'

'They seem to have split up. The alethiometer says that they are above us and below us, outside the building and within it. If I had the books of reading with me…'

'Professor Belacqua does not need the books. Why do you? Never mind – concentrate your search on the king.'

'Yes my lord.' The cleric bent again to the alethiometer.

'Bishop!' It was a guard. 'We have found a hollow place in the panelling of the wall in the king's bedroom. It may be a secret passage.'

__

That's more like it. 'Good. Bring the battering ram. Let us see what rabbit hole his cowardly Brytannic majesty has run down.'

Pantalaimon darted down the stairs, feeling the distance between Lyra and himself growing ever greater by the second. _The pain_. The pain was a distant memory of their first parting in the World of the Dead. It was only a phantom pain now, but the memories it brought back to him encompassed a real pain of their own.

__

Kirjava. My Kirjava. Lost.

Hiding behind statues or curtains every time a human approached, the daemon scurried along the wainscots, searching desperately for the place the alethiometer had told Lyra of; the place where the only person who might be able to help them now was, though he did not know it as he lay fast asleep after a tiring day, being held a prisoner behind his own locked door.

'I am sorry, Lyra. I have made a terrible mistake in bringing us here.'

Lyra and Alfred stood in the Star Chamber, at the top of the north-west tower of the Palace of Westminster. All around them, and three hundred feet below them, stretched the metropolis of London, the greatest city in the world. But London had closed around them; reduced now to a single room, with enemies without and nowhere left to go.

'Could we hide in the roof-space, Alfred?'

'Yes. That might help.' Alfred did not voice his secret fear. The bishop, once he had determined that Lyra and the king were in the tower, had them. There would be no need to risk his life, or anyone else's, in their pursuit. One lucifer and a few scraps of paper, and soon the whole tower would be alight and then… then the bishop could sit back and watch in comfort as the king and his mistress died a fiery, heretic's death.

Outside the king's bedroom another dark figure screamed and fell. The bishop, standing on the roof above by the forced-open iron door, smiled grimly. 'Pavel!'

'My lord?'

The bishop pointed towards the north-west tower. 'Perhaps you can answer a _simple_ question for me. Is the king in there?'

Fra Pavel wrestled with his alethiometer for a few minutes. He looked up in triumph.

'Yes, bishop. He is there, and the woman is with him.'

'Then,' Bishop Jones addressed the squad of guards who had followed him through the secret passage. 'What are you waiting for? Go and flush them out for me!'


	15. The Water Gate

**__**

The Water Gate

With a sound like an express train hitting the buffers a section of the great round table of the Star Chamber slid down the stairs and wedged itself hard against the roof door blocking both it and the stairwell below. 'Good! Now let's throw some more stuff down after it!'

Lyra and the king manhandled a massive oaken chair to the top of the stairs and tipped it over. There was another splintering crash from below as it landed on top of the table. The rest of the table and four more chairs followed it, blocking the stairway completely.

'My great-grandmother Queen Charlotte had those chairs made specially.'

'She must be spinning in her grave!' Lyra grinned.

'So long as she keeps us out of ours! Right, now let's put the rest of this furniture down the back stairs.'

Another door was concealed behind the throne. Lyra passed through it and looked down. 'Are you sure we should block this stair too, Alfred? Could we not escape this way?'

'I'm afraid we can't. The Church will already know about it – it's no secret. It comes out at the end of the King's Corridor. According to the plans it was originally built as a bolt-hole for the monarch in case someone tried to assassinate him in Council. I use it to get to and from the Star Chamber without bumping into the other Councillors.'

'I see. The stair goes up, too.'

'Yes. There's a loft above us, and a window leading to a platform on the roof. It's where they go to raise the royal standard when I'm in residence.'

'Did you play up here when you were a boy? What's in the loft? Is it full of boxes and old books? Did you ever go there?'

'Yes, I did. How did you guess?'

'It's just like the roofs of Jordan College. I used to love it up there, miles away from all the dons and professors. There was always somebody who wanted to teach me something. Or wash me.' Lyra sighed. 'I wish we were there now.'

'You can show it to me when all this is over. Look, this throne is much too ugly to be allowed to stay here any longer, even by moonlight. Down it goes!'

Molly sat in the bows of the rowing boat, Arthur on the thwart behind her, pulling on the oars. 'Left a bit, sir. Now right. Steady!'

The gentle splashing of the oars echoed and re-echoed around the vaulted basement as they threaded their way between the pillars which supported the roof, and the great mass of the Palace of Westminster above them. 'Creepy, isn't it, Nicky?" Molly's fox-daemon snuggled close to her. 'Don't worry. Arthur knows what he's doing. Just keep your eyes open.'

'See anything yet?' Arthur called from the middle of the boat.

'Not yet – wait! Keep going straight on – yes! It's right ahead of us. Only another few yards.'

They passed by ten pillars or so and bumped up against a grating. There were no flaring jets of light on these pillars but that did not matter. Moonlight shone upon them, sliced into vertical strips by the iron bars of the water gate.

'That's it.' Arthur clambered into the bows. 'That's the river Isis out there. All we has to do now is get this grille open. Give us a hand, Moll.'

__

Oh no! Pantalaimon crouched behind a leather-upholstered bench in the corridor outside Lord Dellar's room. Two men, a scarlet-clad guard and a hooded priest, were standing outside the Chief of Staff's door, weapons held ready. It was obvious that they were not there as a courtesy. The Church had moved swiftly to neutralise any possible opposition to its plans.

__

They'll get rid of the king first, then they'll purge all his supporters if they refuse to change sides. What can I do now? I can't get in there. Even if I could, I wouldn't be able to get Lord Dellar out and he won't be able to get in touch with the forces which are loyal to the king. 

Despite his independence from Lyra, Pantalaimon was still at heart her very own daemon. He could not imagine spending any more time away from her dear side than he had to. He turned tail and set off back the way he had come, back to the top of the north-west tower.

Lyra and the king sat side by side on the floor beneath a window. The moonlight poured through the panes above their heads lighting up the now bare and empty Star Chamber. The room looked enormous now that it was empty, fully fifty feet from side to side with a ceiling that was nearly twenty feet high.

__

It may never be occupied again. If the Church wins this battle the Star Chamber will be abandoned, together with the monarchy. I will be the last King of Brytain. 

Alfred did not share his gloomy thoughts with Lyra. Instead he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. She did not resist. _Funny. I feel just like a boy with his first girlfriend. Why should that be? Nobody dares refuse the king!_

('She would, if she wanted to. You know that,' said Eleanor.)

From below they could hear the sounds of voices issuing orders, and booted feet running up and down the Palace roof. The bishop was getting ready to force an entry to the Star Chamber. _Will he have us killed immediately? Or will I be brought up in front of the Court for a show trial?_

'Alfred,' Lyra snuggled a little closer to the king. 'Thank you for… for being so brave. I used to think I was brave too, but it's hard to be brave all by yourself.'

'Pantalaimon will be back soon, with help.'

'It's not just that he's not here with me now. He's been away before and I got by without him then.'

'You must tell me some day how that happened. Your having witch-powers, I mean.'

Lyra laughed. 'I don't! If I did, we'd grab a piece of wood, open the window and fly away! They'd never see us leave!'

'Oh well. It was worth a try.'

'I've been alone all my life,' Lyra mused. 'Except once, and that was only for a month or two. Sometimes when I look back it seems longer than that, and then suddenly it's different, and as if it was all over in the blink of an eye.'

__

Why do I feel jealous?

'He was just a boy. I was only a girl – it was before Pan settled. I loved Will so much, but he was taken from me.'

'He died?'

'No, we had to separate. For everyone's good, the angel said. He got in touch again later, but only through Elizabeth. Then something else happened and we could talk to each other in our dreams, but he got married and I can't – I mustn't – talk to him any more. It's not fair on Judy and John.'

'Could you talk to… to Will now? Summon help?'

'You don't understand.' A tear ran down Lyra's cheek and the king held her still closer to his side. 'He's too far away. He 's farther away than you can possibly imagine.

'They've all been taken from me – my father and mother, Lee, John, Will. I don't see Iorek any more. I think the bears are dying out. There's nowhere left for them to live, only zoos. If I could call Serafina I would, but I don't know where she is. The angels don't visit us. Alfred, all the magic is leaving our world.'

__

You'll feel better when Pantalaimon gets back, thought the king, but that sounded patronising so he held his peace. Forty feet below them a hollow boom rang out into the night. The Church was beginning its assault on the tower.

It was a risky thing to do, but in the end Arthur had to slip one of the oars under the bars of the water gate. He could see no other way to force it open. One side of the gate was securely chained and padlocked, but it looked as if it would be possible to lift the other side off its hinges. _If the oar breaks we're done for!_ He and Molly took hold of the bladed end of the oar and leaned back, their feet in the water resting on the slimy stonework beneath.

'Ready? Pull!' They both threw themselves backwards. There was an ominous creaking sound from the shaft and Molly slipped and fell backwards into the water.

'Sorry, sir.'

'You all right?'

'Yes. Let's try again.' Molly stood up, her uniform sodden with river-water. _In for a penny, in for a sovereign_. Arthur took the second oar from the boat and put it through the bars. 'One each, girl. Pull!'

Together they heaved on the oars. The gate slowly lifted, then fell back again. 'Nearly there. One last try!'

They pushed the oars in further. 'Heave!' The gate rose slowly. Their muscles ached. Then the gate was resting on _top_ of the hinges and with a metallic screech it fell off the far side and clanged as it landed on the stone paving below.

'Just a little more.' They pushed on the gate and it scraped across the ground, bending back the bolt which had secured the other side until they had pushed it far enough to allow the rowing boat to pass through. Arthur and Molly pushed it out into the river-channel and jumped in afterwards.

'Can you row, Molly?'

'A little, sir.'

'Then take this oar and sit next to us. Follow my stroke. We've got three miles to row. It's downstream, but the tide is on the flood. The river isn't going to help us. And Molly…'

'Yes sir?'

'If you calls us _sir_ again, I'll push you over the gunwale and leave you to sink.'

'Yes, Arthur.'

'That's better. Now, let's go. And look out for barges – we're Lyra's and the king's last chance. We won't be able to save them if we goes and gets ourselves drowned!'


	16. The Ledge

**__**

The Ledge

__

Only one of them left now. Alan clung desperately to the drainpipe with his right arm. The iron pipe ran from a gutter above his head all the way down the face of the building to the ground far below. It was a mixed blessing, Alan thought. Although it was a relief to have something to hold on to, the drainpipe curved out and over the ledge. If he wanted to reach the other side of it he would have to climb outwards, his feet completely unsupported. 'Not yet,' his demon whispered. 'Get this one first, then climb round.'

The sound of footsteps was getting closer. The bishop had not bothered to recall Corporal Edgehill when the king's escape route had been discovered. Why should he? The man was expendable. The traitor yeoman was afraid of heights, true, but he was absolutely terrified of the Church. His cheek still stung from the blow the bishop had given it. Another thing, too. He had seen two of his men fall to their deaths from the ledge. There was blood to answer for now.

Corporal Edgehill sidled closer to the royal servant, his daemon at his heels. The rebel was hard to see in the darkness. The moon was shining brightly, but from the other side of the building and the glare only made the shadows deeper. The guard moved slowly, cautiously. He guessed that his men had been too hasty. They had easily been swept from the ledge by the king's equerry. He would have to use his brain.

__

Not too near, not too far. Just right. Corporal Edgehill took his halberd in his right hand and swung it in a vicious seven-foot arc at his opponent. The blade bit into flesh and the man gasped with pain. _Good_. Any further and he would have hit the drainpipe, not the rebel. He pulled the weapon back, watching his enemy carefully. _Again_. The halberd swung, but missed and struck against brickwork. Alan had ducked his head. _Quick now, in case he tries to rush me_. The corporal stepped back and aimed the halberd at the equerry's stomach. Alan brought his left arm down and there was a soft thud as the halberd's axe-head hit his wrist, half-severing it. He gritted his teeth and reached for the head of the weapon with his right hand, letting go of the drainpipe. Holding on to it tightly and ignoring the blood which was streaming from his wounded arm he lurched to the left, pushing at the guard. The man grunted in surprise, tried to regain his balance, but lost his footing and fell. Alan tried to let go of the halberd's head, but it caught in his sleeve and pulled him after the corporal.

Joined in death by the weapon's shaft, the two men fell to the flagstones of the courtyard below. Their daemons, left behind them on the ledge, blinked out of existence.

__

'Ah, there you are my boy. Good to see you at last.' Alan looked up. There had been pain and darkness and an instantaneous flash of light; and now what?

'I've been waiting for you. I thought it might not be very long. Always taking foolish, gallant risks weren't you, son?'

'Father?' Alan looked around. They, his father and he, were standing in the hall of Brandshill Manor, where he had grown up. Their daemons were nowhere to be seen. 

'You're looking for Maria?' Alan nodded.

'You'll see her again very soon, I promise. You do know what's happened to you, don't you?'

Yes. It was all coming back to him. 'We're dead, aren't we father?'

'We are.'

'And is this… Heaven?'

'Not quite. It's all rather different from we've been led to expect. You'll see. In the meantime, though, there's someone waiting for us in the library. Don't be alarmed when you see her. Her appearance is a little… off-putting, but her heart is in the right place. She's a special person; a very special person indeed. She collects stories.'

'Alfred?' The king had jerked suddenly, as if he had been struck by a twinge of unexpected pain, like the beginning of a toothache.

'Nothing, Lyra.' _Alan!_

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. Look! There's Pantalaimon!'

The pine-marten daemon appeared at the window opposite. He must have crossed the roof and climbed up the outside of the tower wall, rather than take the stairs. Lyra stood up and ran across the floor. She opened the window, and her beloved daemon flowed into her arms. Alfred got up and waited for them. Lyra was smiling radiantly, and his hopes rose wildly in his breast. _It's all going to be all right!_ They were soon dashed.

'I'm sorry, Alfred. Pan was going to Lord Dellar's chamber, to see if he could raise the army or someone to come and rescue us. But it's no good. The Church have locked him in his room and set a guard on the door.'

'Thank you for trying, Pan.' Alfred would have stroked the daemon's beautiful fur if he had dared. Below them, the regular booming sound of the ram suddenly ceased. The outer door, reinforced by the weight of the tables and chairs that they had piled up behind it, had stood fast. The blocked stair was safe against an attack from below. Alfred's spirits sank as quickly as they had risen at Pantalaimon's return. _Now it will be as I have feared all along. They will set fire to the tower_. But also, at the back of his mind a question, one which Lyra had asked, was nagging at him. _What's in the loft?_

Molly pulled rhythmically on her oar. She was not catching nearly so many crabs as she had been – not now that she was not trying so hard to keep up with Arthur's rapid pace but had instead forced him to slow down to her speed. She wished her clothes were not so damp.

'Keep going, girl!' Massive shapes loomed above the small boat. The tide was on the flood and the Isis barges were moving upstream, huge, blind and deadly. 

'The door will not budge, my lord bishop. It is solidly made, and it is obstructed from behind. We need a bigger ram, but we may not be able to find one tonight, or bring it up here. Both the main and the king's staircase are blocked, so we cannot get up into the Star Chamber from inside.'

'I see.' _We must capture or kill the king soon. Any further delay will be fatal to our cause. The opposition will rally to the Crown_. 'Tell me sergeant, where are the Palace's naphtha storage tanks located?'

'Two floors down, my lord.'

'Send a squad of men to bring ten gallons up here in buckets. Soak that wood in it and pile it up against the door. Then set fire to it. We have waited quite long enough!'

'Yes, my lord.' The man hurried off. _We have them now. They will either have to leave the tower or burn to death._


	17. The Station

****

The Station

'Molly! Are you there? Are you all right?' Arthur clung to the side of the upturned boat.

'Here, sir.'

Molly was hanging on to the other side of the rowing boat, her fox-daemon with his claws sunk into her shoulders, his eyes brilliant in the moonlight. None of them had seen the huge black-painted hull of the barge as it drifted, tide-driven, upriver. Arthur doubted very much if the vessel's crew had even noticed the collision. Only a fool would be out on the river tonight in a small boat. He made his way hand over hand to Molly's side of the boat.

'Whatever shall we do now, sir?'

'What we've got to do is climb up the side of the boat. That'll pull it upright.'

'The oars! I let go of mine when we went over.'

'So did I. We'll worry about them when we've got the boat back upright.' Together Arthur and Molly heaved the boat over. It lay deep in the water. Arthur helped Molly back on board.

'Use your cap to bail her out. We're going to find the oars. Sal?'

'Over here.'

'Can you see them?'

'One's still in the boat.' _Oh yes_. It was caught in a rowlock. 'The other's over there.'

'Fly to it, would you?' Arthur's magpie-daemon opened her wings and flapped over the water to where the oar lay bobbing on the surface. She perched on its blade. Arthur, feeling the invisible cord that bound them together stretch painfully, swam over to her. He took hold of the oar. 'Wish I could fly, Sal.'

'Wish I could swim.'

Arthur joined Molly in the boat and they bailed most of the water out of it. Arthur pointed the craft down-river. He brushed the moisture out of his hair with a hand.

'Come on, Molly. We'll have to go faster now. We've lost time.' He looked upwards. 'Sal?'

'Yes?'

'Stay up there would you, and keep a lookout for us? There's a dear.'

With a whoosh and a ball of orange-red flame the naphtha-soaked wood caught. Fire licked up the outside of the north-west tower and the varnish with which the door was covered began to bubble and char. Studies have shown that even a simple panel door can retard the spread of a fire for anything up to half an hour. These studies are doubtless correct, but they fail to take into account the effects of the gallons of naphtha which, thrown forcefully against the door by the guards outside, flowed underneath it and set fire to the furniture which was piled up behind. Now the fire was inside the tower as well as outside. It would not stand for long.

'More naphtha!' called the bishop, taking a perverse joy in feeding the fires of Hell.

Lyra sprang to her feet when the fire struck the tower. She looked down to Alfred where he sat under the window. He shook his head.

'You knew, didn't you? You knew that'd do this.'

The king stood up next to her. 'I'm afraid so. Lyra, everything I have done tonight has gone wrong. I'm sorry. I wish you'd escaped when Elizabeth warned you about the plot. You'd be safe by now.'

'Nobody will be safe if the Church succeeds tonight. We must stand up against them.'

The first tendrils of smoke were making their way up the main stair, mingled with a powerful smell of naphtha. 'Come on Lyra. We can't stay here.' The king took Lyra by the hand and led her to the back stair. They clattered up it, smelling burning wood as they did so.

'Quickly Lyra. They have set fire to the King's Stair too.'

There was a metal trapdoor at the top of the stair. Alfred pushed it open and they clambered through it. Alfred bolted it behind them_. For all the good that will do_. The were standing at the end of a passageway which curved away to the left. The wall on the right-hand side was built of unfinished sandstone. It was obviously the outside wall of the tower. The wall on the left was painted grey. Alfred stepped up to it and rapped it with his knuckles. The wall reacted with a hollow boom. Lyra looked at Alfred with puzzlement. The king smiled back to her – the first smile she had seen on his lips since they had left his bedchamber.

'Now I remember what's in the loft!'

The stone steps ran down from the dockside to a pontoon moored next to it. Arthur jumped up onto it and tied the boat to a bollard. 'This is it!' He pointed to a sign on the wall. 'Quickly now!' He held out his hand and Molly took hold of it. Together they ran up the steps. At the top stood an open space with a cluster of low buildings at the far side of it. At the end of one of the buildings there was a latticework tower, to which was attached a huge shape which bulked over them, gleaming silver in the light of the moon.

Arthur and Molly ran across the yard to the nearest of the buildings. The gyptian hammered on the door while Molly shouted at the top of her voice, 'Captain! Captain Hollins!'

Lights flickered on in one of the adjacent buildings. Someone threw a window up and leaned out. 'What d'you want?'

'Is Captain Hollins here? We've got to talk to him. It's terribly urgent.'

'Captain's here, but he's asleep in his cabin. You tell me what you want first.'

'Tell the captain this: it's Lyra – Professor Belacqua. She's in terrible danger; and the king too. He's got to help us!'

'Water?'

'Yes. Nearly three million gallons of water. Hundreds of tons of it. This tank,' the king indicated the grey-painted metal wall, 'supplies all the kitchens, all the bathrooms and all the privies in the whole Palace of Westminster. I really should have remembered sooner. This is the highest point of the entire building. It's the obvious place to put the water tank.'

'How can we put the fire out with it? Is there a tap we can turn?'

'We'll have to see. Let's take a walk around it and see what we can find.'

'Who the hell are you?' Captain Hollins stood in the Deptford Naval Station commander's office. The two bedraggled figures standing in front of him were an unprepossessing pair – a girl wearing the soggy remains of a maid's uniform, her lank hair hanging down her back and her cap long gone, and a man, small and weasel-faced in damp tweeds, holding a disreputable cloth cap in front of him. 'What's all this nonsense about Professor Belacqua and the king?'

'Sir, they're going to kill him. Him and Lyra.'

'Kill the king? Who is going to kill the king?'

'The bishop, sir.'

'Which bishop? This is absurd. Bishops don't go around trying to kill people.'

'He tried to kill you.'

'What?' _The man must be raving._

'He sent your ship up in the storm, when all other ships were grounded.'

The captain stared at the gyptian. 'That? That was an accident… a cock-up. The stop-captain at Witney got his wires crossed, poor devil.'

'It was deliberate. Believe me, Sir Captain.'

Arthur returned the captain's stare, and in the violet light of the gyptian's eyes the aëronaut saw, and believed.

'Yes. I see. What do you think we should do?'

'Raise ship, Sir Captain. Raise ship, and fly to Westminster and pray that we're not too late!'

Alfred put his hand to the stone floor of the loft. It was warm to the touch, despite the immense thickness of the structure which supported the water tank. The loft had no windows, so he could only imagine the holocaust raging below. The whole of the Star Chamber must be ablaze now, flames pouring out of its windows, a fiery beacon in the soft spring night.

The airship cast off from the mooring tower and, all six engines racing, headed up-river. There had been no time to make repairs after the damage that the storm had done to it, so it handled a little awkwardly.

Arthur, Molly and the go-captain stood by the helmsman in the forward control gondola. There was no doubt as to where they should be steering. The north-west tower of the Palace of Westminster guided them, a blazing torch drowning out the lesser lights of London. 'They must be in there,' Arthur said to the go-captain.

'Then they must already be dead,' Captain Hollins replied. They could see the flames which were wrapped around the tower quite clearly now.

'How close can we go, Sir Captain?'

'As close as we need. This is a ship of the King's Flight. We will have to be wary of the updraft over the tower, however. The air will be funnelled upwards by the fire.'

'Then let us go there. Captain, I do not believe that they are dead. Not yet.'

The stopcock was chained and padlocked. Lyra and the king searched, but they could not find the key, not that they expected to.

Alfred took both Lyra's hands in his. Pantalaimon and Eleanor stood side by side, almost touching. 'Lyra, it has come to this. I think that this is the place where we are going to die. Do you fear death?'

'No, I do not. I fear the manner of my dying, perhaps. But do you really think that we will be killed? Won't the water put the fire out?'

'Yes it will, but it will kill us at the same time. The water in the tank is sucking the heat out of the fire directly below it and that part of the floor will not fail. It is well protected. But the walls of the tower are not protected; they will weaken and give way soon under the weight of the water. Then the tank will fall on the fire underneath us and extinguish it, but we will die in its fall. I expect that this whole corner of the Palace will be destroyed.'

'Yes. I see. All we can do, then, is wait for death with as good a grace as we may. Alfred, I am proud to die with you. You are a good man.' Lyra pulled Alfred's arms around her waist, stood up on tiptoe and kissed him tenderly on the lips. He pressed her to him. They stood in each other's arms, calmly waiting for the end.


	18. The Fall

****

The Fall

The Bishop of Caester did not notice the airship's approach until it was almost overhead. The roar of its engines was almost drowned out by the noise of the conflagration which was enveloping the tower. A guard tapped his arm and pointed upwards.

'My lord bishop! Look.'

A dirigible of the King's Flight! The vessel's markings were very distinctive. The Crown of State was emblazoned upon the hull and the tailfins. _Where did that come from?_ His first thought was to order the guards to fetch an Armstrong gun and fire upon the airship. It would catch light very quickly if they fired tracer shells into it, with their trails of white-hot powder. But then he considered that if he did so, the burning wreckage of the vessel would fall directly upon his head.

'What shall we do, my lord?'

'What shall we do? Nothing. He cannot approach the tower without his ship catching fire. He cannot rescue the king.'

'My lord, it is a ship of the King's Flight.'

'I can see that! What of it? Do not waste my time! The worst they can do is shoot at us. Station a few men with rifles to return their fire, if you like. And keep an eye on the tower. I want to be told immediately if anyone comes out of it.'

Arthur looked down at the tower, two hundred feet below. It looked to him like a demonic eye, black in the centre, ringed with red-yellow fire. The airship shook as it was buffeted by the rising air. 'Sir Captain,' he yelled above the stuttering noise of the engines and the crackle of the flames below, 'How much water ballast does you carry?'

'About two hundred gallons at present. Not enough to put the fire out, if that's what you're thinking.'

'If you drop all your ballast on the tower at once, you'll start going straight up, won't you? We'll lose weight.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Can you drop the ballast and let gas out of the airship at the same time? So we stays level?'

'Yes, more or less. It will leave us with no lift to spare.'

'We're not worried about that. Sir Captain, I want you to drop as much water as you can onto the tower and while the flames are quietened down we wants you to lower me on a rope or a ladder if you've got one. I'll try to get into the tower through the roof.'

'Are you mad, Mister Shire? That's the most dangerous thing I ever heard of.'

'We is gibbering, Sir Captain. We is also close to fouling our breeches. But that is what we wants you to do. It's their only hope.'

The outer walls were too hot to touch and the air was shimmering with heat and becoming painful to breathe. Lyra and the king stood with their backs to the water tank, which was still blessedly cool.

Not long now, thought the king and he squeezed Lyra's hand.

The helmsman manoeuvred the Zeppelin so that its hull no longer hung over the Palace roof. A lookout in the aft gondola had seen the riflemen and alerted the go-captain to the danger.

Arthur was standing by a floor-hatch, wearing a harness around his waist which was attached by a rope to a winch in the main body of the airship. 'Are you ready, Mister Shire?'

'Yes, Sir Captain.'

The go-captain looked at his boatswain. 'Mister Tennyson, are you ready?'

'Aye-aye sir.'

'Then on my mark – now!'

The airship bucked violently as the ballast flaps opened wide. A deluge of water poured down upon the tower roof below while, from the upper hull, gas vented into the free air. Arthur stepped into the open hatch.

'What's he doing?' The bishop saw the ballast water cascading down from the airship. It streamed over the tower's roof, pouring through the windows of the Star Chamber and onto the furnace which burned inside it. Orange flame was replaced by dense black smoke.

'Hell and damnation!' _I didn't think of that._ The bishop shouted to the guard sergeant, 'Open fire!' The riflemen shot incandescent bullets into the Zeppelin's hull.

But it was a ship of the King's Flight.

Arthur landed directly on the platform from which the royal standard was hoisted. It was surrounded by a thick cloud of smoke, in which he could see an occasional leaping flame. 'That was a bit of luck, eh Sal!' he said to his daemon, pushing to the back of his mind with an effort the memory of the fire at Bolvangar and the death of his Maggie. The platform was surrounded by an iron railing with a door leading into the tower. It was still intact, as was the roof, and Arthur breathed a sigh of relief.

Paying out the rope behind him, Arthur unceremoniously kicked the door in. There were three stone steps leading down into the roof space which was to his surprise not open, but blocked by a curving grey wall. _Hell! Where are they? They must be here somewhere!_ With Sal on his shoulder he ran round the outer wall. To his horror it was closed off after only a few yards by a solid stone buttress. _Now what?_

'Try the other way!' Sal launched herself from Arthur's shoulder and flew ahead of him, back around the corridor the way they had come. They passed over an iron trapdoor, glowing red with the heat from below. And there! At last! There they were, invisible until the last moment because they were standing with their backs to the inner wall, close to one another with their eyes shut and their hands clasped together.

'Hey! You lovebirds! Is you going to hang around here all night?'

There was a rope ladder waiting for them at the platform. It was beginning to smoulder, as the effects of the Zeppelin's water ballast wore off and the fires burned clearly again. 'Lyra! You go first!' Lyra climbed up the ladder with Pantalaimon wrapped around her neck. 'Now you, sire!'

'What about Eleanor?'

'She can go through the bottom rungs. Hurry, sire!' The flames were building up around them again, stronger than ever. The king climbed up the ladder and Eleanor slipped her elegant paws through it. Arthur looked up to the gondola above them. 'Pull!'

As the smoke cleared and the fire began to re-establish itself the Bishop of Caester was finally able to see what was happening. The airship was moving slowly away from the tower, dipping dangerously towards the ground as it lost the extra lift which the hot air from the fire had given it. Two ropes hung down from its fore and aft gondolas and he could see figures clinging to them. _Holy Mother of God!_ The bishop snatched the sergeant's revolver from his belt. 'Fire, you fools!' he screamed to the men, running towards the tower and shooting into the sky. 'Kill them!' But the heat-distorted air threw off the marksmen's aim and their bullets went wide of their targets, whistling harmlessly over the river Isis towards Puttney. 

Arthur, suspended in the air, saw Lyra and Alfred clinging together to the rope ladder and his head swam. He seemed to see, all over again, the bodies of Lord Asriel and Mrs Coulter as they made their endless fall into the Abyss.

The tortured stone of the north-west tower of the Palace of Westminster, strained beyond endurance first by the sudden cooling caused by the airship's ballast and then by the renewed heat of the naphtha-fuelled fires within, finally gave way. The tower fell; slowly, ponderously, yet too quickly for the bishop who, standing much too close, was pulled down after it into the wreckage. It is impossible to say what killed him first, whether it was the fall, or the crushing weight of the stone, or if he drowned in the six hundred tons of water from the tank which followed him to the ground and in which his sodden corpse was found floating face-down by the salvage crew.

He had not known that you cannot set fire to a ship of the King's Flight, for its hull is filled, not with flammable, explosive hydrogen but safe, inert helium.

* * * *

Lady Elizabeth Boreal had made her own escape from the Palace. She was sitting safely and comfortably with her daemon Parander on her lap in the window of the flat that had once belonged to her mother when she saw the airship fly low over the Agincourt Bridge and ditch in the river Isis. She paid it little attention at the time, for her mind was engaged with other matters. How could she disentangle the interests of the Boreal Foundation from those of the Church? It was clear to her now that change was coming; inevitable change. She could see that the Church's power had been waning for years, even though it had appeared to be so strong. It was like a hollow tree - apparently healthy on the outside, but weak and rotten at the core. The direct attack on the king had not been the act of a confident, powerful Church, but the last desperate throw of a gambler at the end of a losing streak.

The centre of power in Brytain is on the move. This was her opportunity to seize power for herself, while it was still up for grabs. Whether the king was dead or not, nobody would trust the men of religion again, nor believe any more in their hypocritical preachings. The future belonged to the forces of secularism, and why should the Boreal Foundation not be a fundamental part of those forces?

Elizabeth sat up all night making her plans, and when the morning brought news of the king's deliverance and the death of the Bishop of Caester, she was ready.

The Master of Jordan frowned as he read the note that the Dean had sent him. It was a confession, and a goodbye too. It told of a conspiracy, and a hidden allegiance, and love betrayed, and the Dean's complicity in the Church's attempt to murder Professor Belacqua by sending her into the storm which they themselves had conjured up by their secret arts.

'Will there be a reply, Master?' asked Horace the messenger, standing in the hallway of the Master's house.

'No, no reply. But would you go to the Proctor and ask him to call upon the Dean, as a matter of urgency?'

It was too late, of course.

The airship was recovered from the water, refilled with helium and flown back to Deptford, where it was repaired and refitted and eventually had its numeric designation replaced by the name _HMZ Professor Lyra Belacqua_, much to that lady's amusement and occasional embarrassment. So far as I know it is still sailing the skies of the Brytish Empire to this day. 

In the world of Cittagazze, Guilietta Bellini greeted her bother Giancarlo with great joy when he returned, with his boat and crew all safe and sound, from the storm. He could not help but notice that she was accompanied by young Victor Reigali and that they were shyly holding hands.

King Alfred went straight to the Chelsea Barracks when the airship came down in the river and raised a troop of horse to retake the Palace of Westminster. They were not needed. When he got there the Church's last revolution was over, as dead as its leader. They found Fra Pavel the next day, crouched against the parapet, still whimpering with fear. 

The following week Alfred buried his faithful servant Alan with full state honours. The King's Council was suspended indefinitely. Alfred had finished with talking.

Arthur returned to his beloved boats, and Molly Pritchard to a life of service in the Palace. They met up for drinks and reminiscences whenever Arthur's travels brought him to London. Lyra sometimes saw the _Maggie_ and the _Jimmy_ passing through Oxford on their way to Banbury and she and Arthur would spend the day together, when they could afford the time, and talk about Dust, and life, and loss. Many years later they were to find themselves facing danger together again but that is, as they say, another story.

Lyra said a fond goodbye to the king and went back to Oxford by train, with considerable relief. She was not cut out for a career in politics, she had decided. She never discovered the reason for the Dean's sudden and unexpected death, but Will guessed it when she called to him in his dreams and told him about her adventures in London. They both knew that they were breaking a solemn promise but I cannot find it within myself to blame them for it and neither, I think, should you.

Ceres Wunderkind, January 2003


	19. Afterword

**__**

Afterword

I said at the top of this story that I wrote it in response to a number of questions that I had asked myself. Those questions were (warning – spoilers ahead):

What happened when Arthur met Lyra?  
Was Lizzie really the king's mistress?  
Why did King Alfred attend Lyra's funeral? (I warned you about spoilers…)  
How did Victor Reigali win the heart of Guilietta Bellini?  
What was Will and Judy's marriage like for them? How did Judy cope with the Lyra situation?  
What social changes occurred in Lyra's world after the fall of the Magisterium and the destruction of the Subtle Knife?  
Isn't it about time I wrote a Lyra-centric story?

And:

How could I write a story that (credibly) featured Peter Joyce's favourite chewy word; _disestablishmentarianism_? smirk

I have, as usual, borrowed shamelessly from writers in addition to Philip Pullman; notably Mervyn Peake (my versions of Lyra's Palace of Westminster and Jordan College are more than a little Gormenghastly) and Cordwainer Smith (whose planoforming starships are commanded by go- and stop-captains). The relationship between the human pinlighters and the cats who fight the dragons of Space2 in Cordwainer Smith's wonderful story _The Game of Rat and Dragon_ is not so very far removed from that of the humans and their daemons in Lyra's world. I wonder if PP has read it?

__

On Disestablishmentarianism

Compared with ours, history ran a very different course in Lyra's world after the forging of the Knife of the Torre degli Angeli. In this world, the relationship between Church and State in England has long been well established – bishops sit in the House of Lords and the Queen is the head of the Church of England as well as the Government. But although the idea of disestablishment has been in the air for some centuries it has never got very far in our England, because the power of the Church has never been exercised in Government to the corrupt extent that I have proposed it would have been in Lyra's world, where the secular interests of the Magisterium were so much greater. The dissolution of the monasteries and the seizure of their assets was one of Henry VIII's main aims when he made himself head of the Church; besides making it possible for him to marry a Queen who would give him a son. I wonder if he would have done any differently had he known that Edward VI would be such an ineffectual ruler and die young, while Elizabeth I became one of the greatest monarchs that this country has ever known.

Should the Church of England be disestablished here and now in our world? Most British people would say they have no view on the subject. This is not a religious country, nor is it one that goes in for revolutions. For myself; I prefer the connection between Church and State to be open and visible, rather than a matter of secret influence and sponsored lobbying, so I'm not convinced that Alfred was doing the right thing.

__

On Alethiometry

I've always thought that the alethiometer, although it's a really neat idea, is a bit of a plot-killer. It's rather like having the author whisper in Lyra's ear – 'This is what's going on. Here is what you should do next.' It's not surprising that PP arranges his story so that the alethiometer is unavailable from time to time. He has to do the same sort of thing with the Knife, which is such a nifty get-out-of-gaol device, by breaking it.

I thought it would be fun to invent some limitations in the divining of the oracle. I'm sorry if you think I've corrupted PP's concept of how the alethiometer works, but I prefer to regard myself as having taken the opportunity to fill in some of the gaps in what he tells us about it.

__

On Pronunciations

Philip Pullman provides only one formal indication of pronunciation – he tells us how to say _daemon_. I thought the first _e_ in _alethiometer_ was short until I heard PP pronounce it long – _aleethiometer_. Likewise _Iorek_ – it should sound like _Yorick_, Hamlet's jester, not _eye-o-rek_, and the Subtle Knife was made in _Chittagahtzay, _not_ Sittagazzee. _Serafina Pekkala's first name is_ Serafeenah._

Actually, PP drops some useful clues in the text. We know that _daemon_ is pronounced _demon_ because Will has to be told so in _TSK_. And the Lyra-liar connection is enough to prevent us from saying _Leerah_.

To avoid confusion this is (with all due respect) how I think you should say the names I have used in my stories:

The _i_ in Viola (Peter Joyce's squirrel-daemon) is pronounced as _eye_ – _Veye-ola_.   
Arthur's second name rhymes with _clear_. People often misspell it _Sheer_.   
Guilietta – the _G_ is pronounced as a slightly soft J – _Julietta_.   
Giancarlo and Giovanni – the G is very soft indeed, like a less aspirant version of _Shiancarlo_ or _Shiovanni_. If you know French, it's like _Je_ in _Je suis_. If you speak Italian you know this already…   
Parander – should be pronounced with equal emphasis on all three syllables. This is easy for Americans; less so for the English who tend to emphasise the first syllable and slur the rest.   
Cholmondley – _Chummley_. This is an old chestnut. See also Featherstonehaugh, Marjoribanks and Caius (_Fanshaw_, _Marchbanks_ and _Keys_).  
Caester – _Kester_.   
Rosalind – _Rozzalind_.   
Skaven – _Skayven_.

The Irish words and names I used in _A Gift of Love_ are pronounced in the expected way:

Eire – _Airah_  
Cill Airne – _Killarney  
_Dun Loaghaire – _Dun Leerey  
_Baile atha Cliath – _Dublin  
_Failte – _faulta  
_Siobhan_ – Shevorn  
_Tir-na-nÒg_ – Tir _rhymes with_ year. Ò _sounds as_ Oh._

I have adopted antique or cod-Latin names for various places in Brytain, where PP has left me free to do so. If I had my way, Oxford would be known as _Oxenford_ and London would be _Londinium_.

This is not the end of the story! It continues in _The Clockmaker's Boy_, also on Fanfiction.net.

Ceres Wunderkind (_Serrays Voonderkindt_), January 2003


	20. Timeline

**__**

TIMELINE 

Jopari once posted a timeline of the stories he had written, ending with Lyra Belacqua's death in his tale _The Last Temptation_. I killed Lyra off at a rather younger age than Jopari did, so my version of his timeline, although sharing many of the dates and characters, differs where our storylines diverge.

All dates are based on the calendar of our world.

1923 

Birth of Henry Latrom. 

1942 

Estimated date of birth of Asriel Belacqua and Stelmaria 

1962 

Estimated date of birth of Marisa Coulter and *Ozymandias. 

1970 

Birth of Elspeth Morley. 

1972 

Birth of Adèle Starminster and Lysander. 

1980 

Birth of Elizabeth Boreal and Parander. 

1981 

Birth of Margaret Doyle and Jimmy. 

1982 

Birth of Arthur Shire and Sarastus. 

1984 

Birth of Harold Owen and Mike. 

1985 

Birth of Will Parry and Kirjava. Birth of Lyra Belacqua and Pantalaimon. Disappearance of John Parry while on an arctic expedition. 

1988 

Birth of Judy Beckley and Skaven. 

1992 

First signs of mental disturbance in Elaine Parry. Birth of Giancarlo Bellini. 

1997 

Events described in _His Dark Materials_, _The Reliquary_ and _Arthur and Maggie_. Death of Margaret Doyle and Jimmy. 

2000 

Events described in _Intentions_. Death of Henry Latrom 

2001 

The Church attempts to steal Lyra's alethiometer but is foiled, as described in _The Adventure of the Lost Alethiometer_. 

2002 

Birth of Guilietta Bellini.. 

2007 

Lyra graduates from St Sophia's College. She takes a post-graduate arts degree course at Jordan. Her alethiometry skills continue to grow. 

2008 

Alfred II and Eleanor is crowned King of England. 

2010 

Will qualifies as a doctor and starts work at the John Radcliffe Hospital, Oxford. Events described in _Threads_. The Culham Incident and the final destruction of the Subtle Knife. 

2012 

Will Parry and Judy Beckley are married. 

2014 

Birth of John Parry and Rosalind. 

2015 

Birth of Peter Joyce and Viola. 

2016 

Arthur Shire and Adèle Starminster meet in Banbury, as described in _An Ever-Rolling Stream_. 

2020 

Events described in _The King's Councillor_. 

2030 

Events described in _The Clockmaker's Boy. _Death of Elspeth Morley_._

2031 

The Boreal Foundation develops the technology to enable Elizabeth Boreal to perform dream-corruption, as described in _The Queen of the Night_. 

2032 

Death of Lyra Belacqua and Pantalaimon. Death of Elizabeth Boreal and Parander. Events described in _A Gift of Love_. 

2050 

Will Parry retires from medicine. Birth of Christopher Johns and Jemima. 

2066 

Arthur Shire gives Lockkeeper's Cottage to Christopher Johns as described in _His Day's Work_. 

2068 

Death of Will Parry and Kirjava. 

2071 

Death of Arthur Shire and Sarastus. 

*The name given to Marisa Coulter's daemon in the BBC plays. It's not a bad choice, even though PP doesn't like it.


End file.
